*********************************
Chapter Nineteen: Gifts
*********************************
Marina Flat
6:12 PM
The day was growing late when Joshua was allowed back into
his ravaged apartment. The clean-up crew left a message at
the hospital telling him it was safe to reenter as long as he
kept away from the missing window, now covered by thick
plastic sheets. He walked slowly across the bare wooden floor
trying to understand where his things had been placed. His
belongings had been gathered and stacked at the far end of
the flat. His bed had been cleared of glass-dusted sheets,
leaving only the bared mattress. The shards and broken
lamps and frames had been swept up and thrown away. His
mother had come by for the Stradi hours ago and was sitting
with it right now over at the St. Francis hotel where she'd
arranged for a room for him. Joshua's driver was waiting
outside in the car while he stopped to get some clothes and
personal items for the next few nights. He couldn't see much
farther beyond that.
Joshua opened his closet and stepped inside, pushing pants
and shirts along the racks with his bandaged hands. His
fingers were going to be fine. Only one of the cuts had
required stitches. Even so, there would be more scars. He
longed to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes, but he
just couldn't seem to coordinate his mind and body to the
task. He'd wait until he reached the hotel, he thought numbly,
tossing a few pairs of slacks and shirts over his shoulder.
His balance was much better. The medication was working
even if it left him a little groggy. He welcomed the dullness, it
kept him from thinking too much. It kept him moving along
to the next hour. He'd sat through another grueling round of
exams at a specialized clinic earlier that afternoon with an
audiologist. They closed him in a soundproof booth while they
held tuning forks against his skull. He could feel the
vibrations through to his teeth--but his ears, nothing. Nothing
was getting through. He hadn't expected it to. He'd have to
fend for himself now, without the benefit of sound to help
him find his way. He didn't know how long he'd want to
journey like this. The thought of being permanently deaf was
overwhelming, a pain unlike anything he'd ever known. He
could hardly fathom the passage of time. How did he come
from the minor tragedy of losing a pair of pants to this? Every
new day seemed to deal him another blow. Today, Mulder
had failed to visit him even once and Joshua had no sensible
way of contacting him. He hadn't seen him since the early
morning, hours before his mother arrived at the hospital. She
was all he had now.
Joshua nearly jumped out of his skin when he exited his
closet to find Scully standing in the center of the room,
speaking to him. She looked angry. She was waving a sheet of
paper at him.
"What?" he asked when he'd recovered himself. Dammit,
didn't she remember he was stone deaf? She kept on
speaking, growing more heated. He set his clothes down over
the plastic-covered couch and walked past her to the end of
his flat to rummage through his misplaced belongings for a
pen. He was reaching down into a stacked drawer when he
felt dust floating into his eyes. He blinked and looked up. A
half-inch bullet hole had materialized in the wall just past his
shoulder.
He spun around. Scully had her gun on him.
"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed and dove for the safety of the kitchen
bar, scrambling on his belly toward the cabinets, hoping to
find an object to protect himself with. He couldn't hear if she
was coming up on him so he kept whipping his head around
as he ripped open drawers and cabinets. He threw out
pristine bowls and spoons he didn't even know he owned
until he found a large knife.
Something white skittered toward him and he rolled left,
hoping to miss it, all the while shouting for help. When he
righted himself he saw it was the pen board. On it was a
message.
/I'm not trying to shoot you. I thought you were going for a
gun./
Joshua got up slowly onto his legs, still bent behind the
counter. "Show me your hands!" he hollered at her. Presently,
he saw her arms rise into the air beyond the bar. He stood up.
She had a shocked expression on her face, but her weapon
was holstered. "What the fuck are you doing?"
She nodded for the pad and Joshua handed it to her
cautiously, keeping the knife in his bandaged right hand.
She wrote quickly and held up the board. /You can't hear me,
can you?/
"No!" he shouted in disbelief. "You didn't believe me?"
She took the board, wiped and wrote, /Not until you didn't
hear the shot. I'm sorry./
Joshua winced and gripped his side where he had fallen
wrong, trying to catch his breath while she erased and wrote
more.
/Mulder told me you were going to buy a gun./
"I should have. Shit, I thought you were coming after me."
/I'm here about Mulder. He's missing./
"Missing? How?"
/Something's wrong. He hasn't come back./
"Come back from where? Where did he go?"
/I thought he was with you until I searched his hotel room./
She paused, erased, and wrote, /I found something very
disturbing./
She set the message board down and retrieved the paper
she'd been waving at him along with several other sheets and
torn pieces of what looked like Marriott stationery. She set
them out on the counter one by one for Joshua to read,
pressing them flat.
What began as Mulder's study notes of the message from the
cell wall had increased over time to include several new
phrases neither of them had ever seen before. Joshua read
the first of the scraps. They were smaller, torn away pieces. It
looked like they had been deliberately separated from the
larger sheets.
"You must hear us."
"You do not listen."
"You never play for us."
"We try to silence you, yet you still play."
"We are tired of waiting to be heard."
"It will end soon."
"You will come to us."
The torn-out phrases where written in the Thin Man's hand.
The rest of the writings, the bulk of them, were even more
disturbing. They were ramblings scrawled across sheet after
sheet of paper in a straight, strong hand.
"Mulder wrote these?" Joshua asked, wishing he was wrong.
Scully nodded gravely.
The ramblings, like the ramblings of the homeless suspects,
were angry gut-deep words of hatred and fear.
"...what have you done to ME? I came here to help you. I
BELIEVED you. I was doing my JOB. You used me. I tried to
help you. You got into my dreams. What kind of shit are you
trying to PULL? You thought you could just SUCK me off? ALL
that BULLSHIT at the opera. I came there to END it. You made
me watch you with that BITCH. You knew it would turn me
on. You were SEDUCING me. You don't care about anyone. You
USED me. You MADE me want to kiss you. You knew I hadn't
BEEN with anyone. What the fuck was I thinking? You and
your GODDAMNED violin. DON GIOVANNI. You used me. You
knew how to get to me. You pretended to RESPECT me. You
pretended to LIKE me. No one respects me. No one GETS me.
You played me like you play that piece of WOOD. YOU let them
get a photo of us. I NEVER let anyone in, not ANYONE. What
did you MAKE me do? You are a protected witness! This is my
JOB! WHAT did you make me do? You are a protected witness!
I let you FUCK me, you sick little fag. I LET YOU FUCK ME! I..."
Joshua pushed the paper away from him, letting the knife
drop from his hand. He couldn't stand to read any more of it.
"That's not him," Joshua choked, brushing his shaking hand
over his mouth. "It wasn't like that." He looked across the
counter at Scully, feeling the hot prick of tears. "You didn't
think...? You didn't believe this, did you?"
Scully regarded Joshua with contrition. /I always believe too
late./
"But what do you believe now?"
/I believe Mulder may try to kill you./
Joshua looked away, wiping his eyes. No, that was impossible.
Mulder would never hurt him. He wasn't like other men.
Joshua hadn't meant to say those things to him. He was hurt
and angry, but he never really believed Mulder could have
those phobic notions. The writings were a lie, a perversion of
the truth--they had to be. Scully tugged at his sleeve, pushing
the note board his way again.
/In his room I found a book on composers. It was sitting in
the middle of this mess./
"The book..." Joshua said slowly, "was my gift to him."
Joshua saw Scully mouth the word "gift" a few times, as if that
word meant something to her. She wiped the board and
wrote, /Your family curse--it said something about the giving
of gifts./
"We'd be bereft of gifts or of giving."
/Did you give Andy a gift?/
Joshua felt a shiver run through him. He looked down at the
assortment of wrapped packages still tossed carelessly near
the foot of the bar. "Yes. Some wine in Sonoma, right before..."
Scully held up her finger a moment for him to hold that
thought. She wrote, /Did you tip the valet at the opera?/
"Yes..."
/And Harris, you gave him money?/
Joshua was beginning to understand the connection. "Yes, a
few quarters. Sometimes I drop spare change on street
people. I don't have change very often. I rarely buy
anything...I charge it and Nanette pays the bills...My God, it's
the money, isn't it? The gifts. The missing money Mulder
believed my grandfather stole from his people. Is that what's
causing this?"
/I think so./
"What do we do?"
/#1 Don't give me ANYTHING./
/#2 We find Mulder before he finds you./
*********************************
SF Field Office
7:12 PM
Joshua sat in the evidence room staring at the clock. He was
under FBI protection again while they waited for some sign or
sound from Mulder. Scully had alerted all agents and SFPD
officers in the area to contact her if he was spotted anywhere
in the city.
Joshua watched the clock click to the next minute. It was
nearing downbeat at Davies. In just 45 minutes, another
violinist would be taking the stage in his place. By some twist
of irony, his replacement was the same violinist Joshua had
covered for last week in Berkeley. Joshua had never missed a
concert before in his life. He ached to be on that stage. Deaf or
not--the instinct to perform was overwhelming. He felt like
an animal with his leg caught in a trap, struggling to get free.
All his attempts to keep his misfortunes a secret from the
public had now awarded him an entertainment section front-
page story. "Violin Virtuoso Struck Deaf by Mysterious
Illness," it read in bold black type for everyone to pity.
On the table in front of him lay the evidence bags containing
the scraps of his case. All these random pieces of paper
written in different hands, in different languages, had done
little to save him. All it had done was seduce the one person
who'd been most dedicated to understanding its mystery.
Joshua picked up a letter and held it in his hand. Angry words
were scrawled across the dirty page. Someone they never
even identified was speaking of hurt and damage brought
upon them by his music. Sooner or later everyone who was
close to him became corrupted, lost or dead. Joshua could see
a wake of ruined lives washing out behind him year for year.
Everything he dreamed of for himself as a child had come
true--the violin, the money, the adoration and recognition.
Over half the world had applauded for Joshua Segulyev, the
little frozen boy brought into the light and cherished by a
multitude of people he never took it into his heart to play for.
The Thin Man's words spoke the truth--he only played for
himself. It was no small wonder he was cursed by such a
powerful destructive force. Greatness draws its fire from
somewhere, leaving a rotting smoldering waste.
*You do not listen,* they'd said.
He'd been too late for his grandfather and Elise. He didn't
listen to the tremble in their voices as they started to fade
from existence, vanishing in their efforts to give themselves
to an insatiable recipient. Mulder at least had the presence of
a possessed mind to write it down when the violin no longer
held the ability to deafen him.
"You'll need to know, my love," Joshua spoke in silence.
"Whatever happens between us, I forgive you."
The door opened and Scully rushed in carrying a bullet-proof
vest. She pointed to it and to Joshua as she hung it over the
chair next to him.
Scully reached for the pen board and wrote quickly. /We
don't have much time. Dillmont's spotted Mulder at Davies./
"Mulder would never harm me," Joshua said, eyeing the vest.
Scully looked concerned. /Mulder will attack you in a manner
he's accustomed to. He'll be armed./
"I don't want to believe it," he said weakly.
/He has a strong mind, but he's also a very good shot. You
need to be prepared./
"He's been influenced to come after you before. He told me.
What did you do?"
/I had to think faster than him./
"That's fast, isn't it?"
/Very./
"What did you do to stop him?"
/I pulled the fire alarm./
Another agent came to the door, calling for her attention.
Scully pointed to the vest and hurried out of the room,
indicating that Joshua follow her as soon as possible.
Joshua sat in the chair and stared at the nylon-covered black
armor. This curse was of his own making, a burden he needed
to take ownership of before it crushed its next victim.
**********************************
Davies Symphony Hall
Security Monitoring Room
7:42 PM
The security room was a swirling mess of FBI agents and
Davies Hall security. Joshua stood in the center of their
muddled confusion, tossed about like a lost twig of driftwood.
Without sound, he could only guess at what they knew. Agent
Dillmont was leaning over the seated surveillance tech,
pointing at the monitors and arguing with Agent Scully. The
security chief seemed to be having issues with her as well,
taking more than one moment to point in Joshua's general
direction. They were evidently questioning the sanity of
allowing a walking bull's-eye inside the Hall's doors,
especially since Mulder had slipped through their radar.
Eventually she broke away from the men and reached for
Joshua's ever-present pen board. It had managed to take up
residence under his arm where the abandoned Stradi once
belonged.
/I believe Mulder doesn't realize you're not performing
tonight./
Joshua shook his head. "How?"
/You finished the concerto last night. In "their" minds, you
may still perform to spite them./
"You can't allow the concerto to be performed tonight," Joshua
said, looking to the security chief.
/They know that. They're devising a plan to evacuate the
hall./
Joshua felt some relief at knowing that and eased back from
the main bustle. Scully had plans to use him as a lure--safely,
she'd assured him. Joshua wasn't sure if he agreed with her
plan. He wasn't here to follow her commands; he was here to
find a solution. Joshua's eyes tracked to the surveillance
screens, flipping between black and white live video shots of
the Hall. Quite unexpectedly, he saw something that made all
too much sense to him. A camera at the high interior of the
performance hall showed the hanging plastic sound deflection
shields, and more importantly, the microphones. Every
performance this week had been set up for a recording by
EMI. Tonight, mic five was swinging far too low and out of
sync with the others.
Joshua felt his heart begin to race. He knew where Mulder
was. He looked up at the mass of people around him. All he
needed was a chance to get away.
****************
7:58 PM
Joshua ran down the third floor maintenance access hallway.
He couldn't hear if anyone was following him, but he
suspected Scully was not fooled by the sudden clang of the
fire alarm. The ensuing panic was now set for automatic and
Davies security had over two thousand people to assist in
evacuation.
Joshua slid to a stop against the last door in the long hallway,
shoving it open with his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye,
he saw the corridor's opposite door begin to open. She was
harder to shake than he thought.
He tugged the door shut behind him, fighting the hydraulics,
and was dismayed to find it wouldn't lock no matter how
hard he pounded on the bar. He left it and took off for the
long stairway ahead, the one that ran straight up into the
rafters--a stairway he had climbed many times before. He
charged up the steps in twos, reaching the gate as the air
rushed in and out of his lungs. He forced himself to calm
enough to manipulate the trick release on the lock that kept
the gate solidly secured. He snapped it open with effort and
passed briskly through, turning to slam the gate firmly
behind him. Below, a shaft of hallway light broke over the
distant base of the stairs.
Joshua climbed the remainder of the distance. He was at the
sound room door now, but he had no way of knowing what
activity lay inside. He took fate into his willing hands and
jerked the door open, entering its dim interior.
He almost stepped on the head of the technician lying
unconscious on the floor in front of him. The side of his
forehead was bleeding from the tight blow of a pistol grip.
The disabled man was handcuffed securely to the base of the
control board, his arm extending upwards, twisted away from
his fallen body. Ahead, Mulder stood with his back to Joshua,
his gun aimed at the windows down toward the empty stage,
oblivious to the chaos that reigned in the aisles and hallways
beyond. His concentration was reserved for one target alone,
and that target was standing behind him.
"Mulder..." Joshua called to him and the agent slowly turned
around. His sharp green eyes gathered Joshua into their focus.
Mulder's face was calm, but cold, intent. He raised his weapon
slowly, taking a step forward. His lips moved tightly as he
began to speak to no one who could hear.
"You know I can't hear you..." Joshua said, trembling, trying
not to look into his eyes--the caged anger in them was
terrible to see. Joshua didn't need to read lips to understand
the words; he had read them in Mulder's own written hand.
The agent came closer, holding his arm out straight. He stared
down the sight of his gun at Joshua, aiming to kill, as all
agents are trained to kill. *Deadly force is an unfortunate, but
necessary option.*
Joshua held up his hand in a meager defense, unconsciously
taking steps back until he staggered against the body on the
floor behind him. He fell to a crouch, regaining his balance.
Mulder's aim lowered accordingly.
"You were right, Mulder--all along you were right. You
thought no one would believe you, not even me. I've been
deaf for a very long time. It started with my grandfather...but
it ends..." the words were hard on him and he choked them
out, "...it ends with me." He came onto his knees, reaching up
in supplication, reaching out for the gun with an opened hand
like Mulder had reached for the Stradivarius, with reverence
and fear.
"Mulder..." he pleaded, his fingertips just brushing the muzzle
of the gun. "I won't curse the prince for freeing me."
The gun fired, a red and white flash. Joshua fell back hard
against the sponge tile wall. A ringing sang in his ears
accompanied by a crushing pain in his chest. He slid down the
wall and slumped over on his back, crumpled over the body
beneath him. He couldn't move; his eyes were burning as they
began to lose focus. Mulder stood over him, the gun still in his
hand, its muzzle exhaling smoke as the room grew colder and
brighter and a head began to form, rising out of Mulder's
shoulder, gray and ghastly. The Thin Man emerged, stepping
out of the agent's body like it was made of water. Mulder
gasped and his eyes flew wide once the specter broke free.
The gun dropped from his hand as if it had burned him. He
lunged forward toward Joshua, bending over him, shouting
his name.
"Joshua...! No! God! No!"
*I can hear you...* Joshua thought and in one fluid move,
stood up. He didn't understand how he was able to move past
Mulder, who was on the floor scrambling for something.
"Joshua..."
It wasn't Mulder's voice now; the voice was coming from
behind him as the room brightened even more and the
carpeted floor began to whiten with snow. Trees materialized
and a cold wind blew up from behind. Joshua was standing
alone on a country winter road lined with conifers. The
scattered tracks of horseshoes and carts carved in the white
blanket were splattered with the red stain of blood. He could
hear men's voices and the crunch of heavy boots, moving
closer. Joshua turned behind him to look up the road. A mass
of marching men were just clearing the crest of the hill. They
were dressed in tan uniforms, a red star centered on each cap.
*The soldiers are coming,* he thought, and ran for the cover
of the trees.
*****************************
*************************************
Chapter Twenty: The Lost Kingdom
*************************************
It was cold in the woods as Joshua ran deeper. He was in the
country somewhere, hearing the wild birds rustling in the
treetops. From the road he thought he had seen smoke rising
from a man-made fire. He ran toward the smell of burning
wood and manure until he came to a small hamlet of
thatched-roof sod farmhouses with old-fashioned iron plows,
scythes and wheelbarrows near their perimeter. At the edge
of a clearing stood a small farm home, a fire burning from its
chimney. From inside came the wails of an infant.
Joshua walked around the back of the house, looking for a
door. At the back step sat a young girl, unnaturally thin,
shivering in a felt coat much too large for her small frame.
She was poking at the snow with the end of a tree branch. She
heard him approach and lifted her sallow face to smile up at
him.
"Hello," she said in a strange language Joshua knew he
shouldn't be able to understand and yet he could.
"Hello, little one," he answered in the same tongue. "Why are
you out in the cold?"
"We can't go inside," she said as the infant continued to cry.
"The baby just came."
"What baby?"
"You want to see?" she asked, getting up. Joshua followed her
to the side of the home where they could peek through the
crumbling sod brickwork. A large fire was burning from a
stove inside. There was a cot against the far wall. A woman
and a man stood over it, drawing a blanket over the face of
someone who lay limp on the bloodied straw mattress. There
were two older children in the room, a girl and a boy. The girl
was holding the newborn. All of them were thin and drawn;
they moved slowly.
"Who are they?" Joshua asked the girl, who was standing on
tip-toe next to him.
"My mama and Auntie and cousin Joseph and Tatiana and a
friend of Uncle's."
Joshua watched as Tatiana handed the baby over to the young
man--the 'friend.' He looked stunned and sorrowful. Joshua
couldn't hear all that they were saying over the child, but the
woman was motioning the man to leave, quickly. In another
moment he did, shoving his shoulder against the back door.
He exited and started off across the clearing.
"Where's he taking the child?" he asked the girl.
She looked up at him, sad. "Mama told him to take the child
and leave it in the snow."
"Why?!"
"So it wouldn't cry for milk."
"Why isn't there any milk?"
"The soldiers don't want us to have any. They took away all
the goats. Mama says they sl..slaughtered them." She smiled,
proud at the new word she'd learned.
Joshua looked toward the clearing. The man had almost made
it into the trees beyond. Joshua ran after him. He wasn't going
to let him kill the child.
###
"Wait! Stop!"
Joshua cried out to the shuffling form ahead of him. Although
the man had a generous headstart, it wasn't difficult to catch
him. Joshua slowed when he was a few paces behind him. The
child was quiet now as the young man approached an
abandoned storage hut in the woods and sat down heavily on
the front stoop.
Joshua came and stood in front of him. "Listen. I don't know
who you are, but you don't have to harm this child. I can
help..."
The young man didn't acknowledge him. He sat with the baby
in his arms, wrapped in a brightly colored jumpsuit, his little
finger to its eagerly sucking mouth. He was beginning to
weep. Joshua reached out to him.
"He can't see you," the little girl said, running toward them.
Joshua stilled his hand just shy of the man's shoulder.
"Why not?" he questioned, although it did appear to be true.
"You can see me," he reasoned.
She ran up beside him, panting. "That's because...you saved
me."
Joshua stared at her, confused.
"Don't worry about the baby. He won't hurt her."
Joshua looked down with pity at the young man, wracked
with misery. "How do you know?"
"He was in love with Auntie. I saw them kissing after Uncle
was sent away."
The little girl took his hand, leading Joshua away from the
young man, back into the woods.
"I don't understand...you say I saved you?"
The little girl raised her arms so Joshua would pick her up. He
did and the lithe thing wrapped her thin arms and legs about
him, pressing her small face to his cheek. "I told you, my
darling," she said in his ear. "When you played for me, you
saved me."
**********************
"Grandpapa!" Joshua yelled into the white powdered sky.
Snow was falling from the late afternoon sky, muffling the
carriage of his voice. The girl wasn't with him anymore--he
was alone and desperately trying to find his way back to the
deserted hut.
He wandered for what seemed like hours until he heard a
noise not far off in the snow. He followed it and came upon a
narrow path. A man was on it, up ahead, hauling a
wheelbarrow with a few blankets in it and what looked like a
metal milk can.
Joshua followed him until they reached the familiar hut. He
watched the man lift and carry the blankets and can inside.
He left the door slightly ajar, and Joshua slipped through it
entering the small space. The inside was lit by dull sunlight
seeping through seams in the wooden walls. He saw the man
reach down into a lidless chest and lift the little baby girl up
into his arms, bouncing her on his hip. She began to cry and
he set her back down while he filled a small bottle with a
yellowish-toned milk. He sat on the floor cross-legged,
gathering her into his lap as he fed her. She cooed and sucked
heartily on the thick nipple.
Joshua moved into their private space, sitting on the rough
wood floor just across from him. He listened to him speak to
the baby in a voice he hadn't heard in over two long years.
"Drink up, little one. We have a long journey to take today. I
have found the rest of the money Ivan collected for us. It will
buy us a way to Poland. The soldiers believe me. They think I
am him. They think I am the son of a Red Army Civil War
hero. I think I will need to keep this beard longer than the
winter."
The baby reached out with her stubby fingers for the short
growth of dark hair that already clung to the young man's
chin. He was almost a child himself, not much older than
Joshua was when he left for tour.
"I do not know if what I am doing is right, Mirriam. But I
know your mama would be so happy to see you if she had
lived." The young man's voice caught at the mention of her,
Anna Segulyev, wife of Ivan Segulyev, who would return
from a Siberian prison one day soon to find his family gone
and his marriage betrayed. This was were it all began, with a
heart-broken young man who would do anything to keep the
one thing in life that truly belonged to him.
Joshua sat still and watched his grandfather tenderly feeding
his infant mother. He didn't care that he couldn't touch or
speak to him. It meant everything for him just to see him
again, alone and unguarded. Joshua knew there wasn't
anything he couldn't forgive him for. All the love he had for
Anna and their child--to take the lives of an entire village
into his hands to save her, only to have her become lost to
him with her eventual marriage to Joshua's father, to the cold
hands of a stranger--this was his curse.
Grandpapa moved the nipple from the baby's smiling mouth
and she gurgled up at him. How Joshua longed to have been
the owner of that smile--to know such caring from his very
first days. He would have known a childhood without dreams
of ice and snow and twisted hands. He would have known the
soft caress of this man's beard the first year it began to grow.
He knew he didn't belong here, this all happened long ago, but
he wouldn't leave this room, not now, not for anything.
"Why didn't you tell me, Grandpapa?" Joshua lamented,
speaking to himself as he watched his guardian bend to kiss
the baby's soft head. "Why didn't you tell me you were ill? I
would have cared for you. I wanted to take care of you. I
wanted to thank you, but you didn't let me."
A ringing hit Joshua's ears and he winced, covering them,
feeling a crushing pain in his chest. Beyond the ringing were
voices, echoing and distant. He thought he should know them,
understand them. He slumped to the cold floor, twisting in
pain. He wasn't going to leave. Not this time. He wasn't...
"Give us some room. Let us in."
"We have a shooting."
"Victim looks to be approximately 30 years of age."
"Can you cut this off him?"
"Step back, please."
"Is he breathing?"
"Where's the weapon?"
"What the hell is he doing here?"
"Sir, will you step back?"
"Is he? Is he wearing a vest?"
"Cuff him. Get him outta here."
"Wait. Not yet. I'll hold him."
"I need to see..."
"Someone, please. Can you tell me? Is he wearing a
vest?"
*************************
Joshua was lying on a cot on a hard, stiff mattress. He could
smell something awful burning; a fetid steam was floating
into the low room. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, throwing a
filthy blanket off of him.
The girl was back, standing in the doorway. She had a small
blackbird at the end of a long string tied to her wrist. The
bird kept trying to take flight, leaping into the air to fight at
the end of the restraint. It chirped and fluttered back to the
floor, heaving.
"What happened to you?" Joshua asked, sickened by the girl's
emaciated limbs and sunken face. She had looked thin before,
but was now a mass of matted hair and pale bones. Her
clothes were worn and there were open sores on her legs.
"You need to wake up. You're supposed to be with us."
"Where?"
"Come," she said, and began to walk from the room. The bird
flew to the end of the string, shadowing her stiff frame as she
shuffled down the hall.
Joshua followed. In the next room saw what he had smelled.
On a stove was a large pot, bubbling the last remnants of a
hastily eaten meal. On the floor were stripped branches,
chewed leaves, and the rotting corpse of a cat, riddled with
larvae. Its fur and tail were the only parts that didn't make it
into the pot.
He looked away, covering his nose, and hurried with her out
the open back door. Winter had faded and spring was upon
this once frozen land. Ahead, the clearing was now covered in
fresh grasses and wildflowers. He followed her across the
grass and into the woods at the other side, to the deserted
end of the village. He could smell a fire burning as dusk began
to fall. The girl was leading him toward a large granary shed,
a barn.
The girl stopped at the tall sliding door and indicated he go in.
Joshua looked through the narrow opening. He could see the
red lick of flames reflecting within. "I don't want to go in
there," he said, standing still.
"Ivan is waiting. You must go in. He'll be angry if you don't."
"What's in there?"
"Salvation," the girl replied, taking his hand in her cold
skeletonized fingers. The bird gave up the fight and came to
light on her shoulder as they entered together.
###
Joshua stood quietly in the barn's dark interior watching the
assemblage entering through the slit in the opened door. The
arrivals were mostly famine-ravaged women, barely alive,
moving slowly. There were very few men and only one child
who was now approaching the body that lay in final repose
atop a wood and straw-leaden pyre built onto the low empty
storage loft. Some people had been carried here, others
wheeled in on carts. Some lay on the floor unmoving; a few he
was certain were dead.
He waited with them, listening to their mumbled chants, not
understanding why he needed to be here. He kept his eye on
the door. A slim shaft of fading twilight was still penetrating
the dark barn, lit deep red by a fire burning in a pit next to
the funeral bed.
The girl untied the bird from her wrist and re-anchored it to
the foot of the pyre. She said a few words Joshua couldn't
hear which the assembly repeated in weak, dull voices. She
reached down with a white bone hand and lifted a burning
branch from the fire, holding it to the straw.
The pyre was alight and the girl stepped away.
The flame flicked over the shrouded body in a whipping
blanket of orange, yellow and red swirls, quickly growing hot
and fierce. A wave of flame leapt from the pyre to the floor
below, lighting a collapsed bale of hay. The rotting straw
combusted, blowing flickers of hot sparks across the floor to
the dry, cracked wood of the structure. A long support beam
lit and flame licked up its length to the ceiling.
"Hey!" Joshua yelled, although no one could hear him over the
sudden roar of the growing fire, which was now spreading
across the roof beams. He looked to the gaunt faces around
him. They took no notice of the danger. Their sunken eyes
regarded the flickering wisps with indifference. A few
stepped forward, toward the flames, stepping into them,
letting their tattered clothes catch fire and begin to consume
them. The human torches slumped to the floor one by one as
they burned. There was no weeping or screams.
This wasn't right, Joshua thought, feeling panic welling in him.
They had all come here to die, but *he* wasn't supposed to
end here. He ran for the door to find it slid shut and locked
with chain. He pounded on it, struggling against the rising
cloud of choking smoke and heat. This had to be a dream, a
nightmare from his childhood, exchanging ice for fire. He
pounded on the door with his hands. His Grandpapa would be
coming soon to let him free, to take him away from this.
"Grandpapa!" he cried, slamming his shoulder into the door. It
groaned, but wouldn't budge. No one would be coming to save
him this time. He coughed as the smoke seared his lungs and
sweat ran down his neck. His grandfather was in Poland by
now, bribing his way to America. He was left behind. They'd
all been left behind.
Instinctively, Joshua turned away from the barred door and
ran through the smoke and burning bodies to the back of the
structure. The girl was there on the ground, crawling through
a broken board near the far corner. She was almost through.
"Nana!" Joshua cried out, falling to his hands and knees to
crawl after her. She turned to him once she'd freed herself of
the barn. He pushed his head and right arm through. He could
see the woods beyond fading into darkness, but he couldn't
get out this time. He was too big.
"Nana! Don't leave me in here! Help me!"
The girl got to her unsteady feet and backed slowly away. "I
can't help you. I'm the only one who survives," she said
sorrowfully, and walked away into the gloom, dragging the
corpse of the dead bird on its string behind her.
"Nana!"
Behind him, Joshua heard the roof of the barn crack,
beginning to fall in upon itself. He pulled his head back in,
scraping his shoulder against the ragged wood. He sat on the
dirty floor holding his shirt sleeve over his nose, trying to
block the nauseating stench of burning human hair and flesh,
witnessing the incarnation of death before him. Bodies were
still falling to the floor, one over the other, engulfed in flame,
their white eyes melting in the unforgiving heat. Joshua
looked to the origin of the inferno and saw a familiar form
taking shape. The Thin Man rose from his corpse on the pyre
and sat up, immune to the destruction he had created. He
stepped down, cutting through the laps of red and orange. He
neared the first body, dead on the floor, its hair still alight. He
reached out to it with a bony hand. The woman's spirit lifted
and took his hand, stepping into his body. He reached for
another and it did the same, becoming absorbed by him. He
collected their souls one by one, gathering up the dead as
their emaciated bodies peeled and flickered and crumbled
into black charred bones.
When the dead had all gone into him, the Thin Man began to
walk toward Joshua, who was huddled against the only wall
of the barn yet to catch fire. Joshua's eyes were burning with
smoke and his lungs were begging for relief. The fire was
moving closer as was the Thin Man's hand, reaching for him.
"I'm not dead yet," Joshua choked, refusing to accept his
invitation.
The walking corpse heard him and stilled. "You foolish boy.
Your death was never my design."
"You killed them," Joshua said with anger to the haunting
spirit, addressing him as if he were addressing the living.
"You killed them all. You made them sacrifice themselves for
your vengeance."
"Is this what you see?" the dead man leered. "Look again."
Joshua could still see in the glowing carnage the memory of
watching those women and men walk knowingly into flame.
"You believe the fire is worse than the madness?"
"My grandfather had no hand in this. He was afraid for his
child. He did not set out to destroy you."
The specter stepped closer, looming over Joshua. His voice,
which Joshua could never identify, now resounded with the
vocal patterns of nearly forty people. "You think this is about
revenge. You think this is about spite--one man to another.
You are wrong."
"Then what is it you want from me?"
"To remember where you came from," the Thin Man
whispered, smiling that cracked-lipped smile of white teeth.
"To remember what became of us." The roof above them
broke with a loud crack and fell in. Joshua dove to the wall,
covering his head as they were buried in splintering wood
and smoke.
**********************
There was a crushing pain in his chest. Joshua was covered in
debris, pinned to his back by smoldering ashen wood. He was
alive, but trapped. His lungs were restricted; he could barely
draw air. He lay in silence for hours, listening to the pop and
hiss of the rubble as it cooled.
At one point he heard footsteps and raised his head to look
through the tangle of boards. He could just barely make out
the form of a girl, picking over the fallen mess with the end of
a long stick. His head fell back, exhausted. He struggled to
catch his breath and tried to lift his head again, shifting
slightly. He saw her raise a rock over her head and throw it to
the ground, cracking something underneath. He tried to cry
out to her, but his lungs wouldn't fill. She reached down and
picked something up. She held it up to the light of the pale
moon. In silhouette he saw her walk away from the dying
bonfire with a piece of human bone.
**********************
Time passed and Joshua idly wondered why he wouldn't die.
His lungs screamed to him with each shallow breath. His arms
and legs were pinned, immobile. His chest was crushed by a
large beam. The pain and cold had reached a point of
intensity where it no longer registered. He was tired and
wanted to sleep.
"Tell me. Is he wearing a vest?"
"Yes. He is. It didn't go through."
"His ribs may be broken. Is he moving air?"
I'm here, Joshua thought. Come find me. They left me here to
die.
"Take him away."
"Just a minute; he's coming around."
"Keep him back, ma'am."
Above him in the moonlight, Joshua could see the shadowed
forms of men, rushing around over the debris, searching for
him. One was calling his name.
"I'm here," he whispered. The man stopped and came over to
where he was trapped, extending his hand, reaching for
Joshua in the chaos of the fallen barn. Joshua struggled and
slipped free his arm, reaching for the strong, elegant hand--
designed both to kill and to save.
********************
Marina Flat
1:33 PM
Sunday (three days later)
The Bay breeze blew against the plastic covering over the
open wall, rattling it like a flag. The view was translucent,
distorted and strange. Joshua turned away from the fluttering
window and back to the small trunk sitting open on the back
of the piano. Slowly, he continued to place small items in it:
books, picture frames, and other personal effects from his
disarrayed and dismantled shelves. He breathed carefully; his
chest was still incredibly sore from the bruised ribs that had
stopped Mulder's bullet in a mitt of Kevlar. The rest of the
ache he felt had nothing to do with his injuries.
He packed one newspaper-wrapped item at a time, trying to
regain some momentum for his exodus from San Francisco
tomorrow morning. He was already two days late starting his
rehearsal week with the Pacific Symphony in Los Angeles.
The front bell rang.
"Come in!" Joshua called out, biting against the sharp pain the
deep breath had cost him. *Must remember not to yell,* he
told himself, carefully nestling a small black and white photo
and duck within the rest of the objects in the trunk.
Agent Scully opened the door and slipped in, securing the bolt
behind her. "You should keep this locked," she said, coming
over to Joshua.
"Why? What could I possibly have to fear?"
Scully paused to look over his ravaged apartment as if seeing
it for the first time; perhaps she was. "You're leaving
tomorrow?" Scully asked, eyeing his mincing movements.
Joshua forced a little smile as he set an alarm clock in the
trunk. "It's not much worse than the stabbing. I'm used to
rehearsing with a handicap nowadays."
"But, your condition, I thought..."
"Pacific Symphony ticket sales have doubled since the latest
chapter in my sordid life hit the LA Times. They've added an
extra night. Everyone wants to come see the 'cursed' violinist."
Scully stopped a few feet shy of the piano. She seemed like a
lost bird caught in the center of his wind-blown home. She
looked like she didn't know where to stand.
"Did Mulder send you?" he asked, hopeful.
"No, Joshua. I've come on my own behalf. I just...wanted to see
if I could talk to you."
Joshua stopped his idle packing when he heard the gravity in
her voice. He gave her his full attention. "I'm sorry," he said,
moving away from the trunk to clear a pile of shirts and
hangers from his couch. "Please sit down."
She took a seat at the edge of the cushions, clasping her hands
in her lap. Joshua took the chair opposite her. "What is it? Is
Mulder all right?"
She nodded. "Yes, he's fine. Well, not completely fine--he's
still in custody, but otherwise on the mend."
"I've been worried. They won't let me speak to him," Joshua
said dejectedly.
"That's why I'm here. To tell you I've been in touch with
Washington. I've secured authority to have him released
within the hour. And also..." she took a moment to find her
next words, "...to apologize to you."
"Apologize? Why?"
"I made a mistake. I'm hoping that I can set things right
again."
"What mistake?" Joshua asked quietly. Scully might have
been a slight woman in stature, but her resolve was
something any man would be plainly foolish to stand in the
way of. He couldn't imagine what it was she'd felt she'd done
wrong.
"I misjudged you, Joshua. And what's worse...I misjudged
Mulder. My misjudgment has led the both of you to this and
I'm here with the hope that I can correct it."
"Scully, I don't know what it is you think you've done, but
Mulder and I...we made our own mistakes. I just want him to
know before I leave...I want him to know that I forgive him."
"He knows that, Joshua. What he can't do is forgive
himself...I've never seen him like this. He blames himself--for
me, for you, for everything."
"I wish he'd let me reassure him."
"You've been a good friend," she said steadily, although there
was a tremor to her upper lip. She licked it still and
continued. "A better friend than I've been recently. I thought
I was protecting him, but now I see I've protected him too
much. I keep him safe from everything, even happiness. He
cares for you, Joshua. And I tried to keep that from him."
"I don't understand."
"I led him to distrust his own instincts about you. I look too
hard at the facts; I miss the truth. Mulder isn't an easy man to
love, but I failed to realize that it's far from impossible."
Joshua now understood what she was apologizing for. She was
sorry for planting the seed of doubt about him in Mulder. She
didn't realize that he was guilty of the exact same crime.
"I gave you no reason to trust me, Scully. You did the right
thing. You were looking out for him. I would have done the
same."
She met his words with a slight smile. "Thank you, Joshua,"
she said, letting her tension recede. It seemed she had come
here to be forgiven, by him of all people.
"You're welcome," he answered.
She looked off again, her fingers tapping nervously in her lap.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, earnestly.
"Sure."
"Has Mulder told you why we've stayed partners for so long?"
She asked this as if she didn't know the answer herself. It
both surprised and saddened Joshua that after all these years
she didn't know.
"He doesn't tell me about you. He never let me in there."
She started to say something, but instead raised her fingers to
catch the sudden tears that were forming in the corners of
her eyes. "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting that."
"Why?"
"Because, I've been afraid."
"What were you afraid of?"
She gave up and let the tears fall from her eyes, dropping in
her lap. "Ever since I saw you standing together in your old
bedroom...I was afraid I had lost him."
"You saw us?"
"No, Joshua, that's just the problem. I refused to see you--the
two of you and what it might mean. I refused for days and
when I got the photo, all I could think was that you must
have *done* something to him. You must have been
manipulating him because *no one* belongs to Mulder...no
one..." she repeated quietly, looking down. "You've seen a side
of him I've never known."
Joshua finally began to understand the nature of the sworn
protective relationship these two had shared for so long.
"Maybe I've seen him, Scully, but I understand enough about
him to realize he doesn't belong to me. From that first night at
dinner, I saw how you moved together as one person. I was
foolish to think I could have a place in that."
Scully made an attempt to smile as she came to realize their
common predicament. "We both love him, Joshua. The
problem is, neither one of us knows what to do about it."
They caught each other's eyes for a long time--both of them
offering a flag of surrender in a battle that was never fought.
The battlefield had just slipped through their fingers.
*************************************
Marriott Hotel
5:46 PM
Joshua stood outside Mulder's hotel room door, fingering the
card key Scully had given him. Mulder had been released a
little over two hours ago from Federal custody and returned
to his room to rest. Joshua pressed his ear to the door. It was
quiet on the other side. He knocked.
There was no answer.
Joshua took the card and slid it into the slot, waiting for the
light to turn green and the door to unlatch. He opened it and
went in.
Mulder was sitting in a chair facing the window. The curtains
were only half-open and the sheer inner drapes were still
sealed, only letting a diffusion of daylight in. His eyes were
open, staring at nothing in the veiled view. Joshua closed the
door slowly behind him and stepped in quietly as if someone
were sleeping. Mulder's hair was still damp from the shower.
He'd managed to slip into a pair of jeans and nothing more.
His bare arms lay heavily on each armrest. Next to him on the
table sat *The Lives of the Great Composers,* opened to the
chapter of Beethoven.
Joshua stopped in front of Mulder's outstretched legs, waiting
to see if he'd respond. Scully was right; he'd never seen a man
sunk so low in self-loathing before. Mulder's stubbled face
looked drawn and haggard; it appeared his 48 hours in Jarvis'
slammer had been sleepless ones.
"That's a good story," Joshua said, nodding toward the book
like he was starting up a conversation with a man in the park.
"An inspiring tale of human tragedy and endurance. It would
be my favorite bedtime story if it weren't true."
Mulder's head turned toward the book. He picked it up and
brought it into his lap, closing it. He ran his hand over the
leather cover once and held it out to Joshua. He wouldn't look
at him. "Take it," he said in a scratchy whisper.
Joshua fought the sorrow he felt rising in his throat. "I won't
take it back," he answered him. "It was freely given."
Mulder's fatigued arm shook and he brought the book back
into his lap, clutching it in his hands. His face twisted in pain.
"You shouldn't be here, Joshua. You shouldn't be anywhere
near me."
"I don't fear you, Mulder. I never did."
Mulder lowered his head. "You should have."
"Mulder, look at me."
Mulder's head stayed low, his lips moving as if in prayer. If
he wouldn't look up, then Joshua decided he would move
down. He kneeled on the floor in front of him, next to the arm
of the chair, finding his eyes.
"I refuse to fear you. The danger is gone now. Their message
has been heard. I understand what they want from me and I
plan to rectify it."
Mulder refused to reply, but his eyes couldn't help betray a
flicker of curiosity as they stared at the floor.
"When I was out, I went back there, to Chutove. I saw many
terrible and wonderful things. They showed me how they
lived and how they died. They had been forgotten, and they
wanted me to know, to see where I had come from. Unlike my
grandfather and father, I am the first descendant in a position
to draw public attention to an abominable tragedy the world
has ignored. I intend to use that ability wisely. I've
rescheduled my tour. The Vienna Philharmonic is thrilled I
will be joining them in all their travels. I'm also sponsoring
them to extend their tour to one more city.
"I'm going back there, Mulder, to my homeland. I'm hosting a
benefit concert in Poltava Province. I'm very much looking
forward to it, actually. I think my grandfather would be
proud of me." He paused, searching Mulder's face. The man's
mouth twitched at something approaching a smile. It looked
as if he might be coming around a little.
"I gave my whole life credit to a man who took from so many
people," Joshua continued. "They say it takes an entire village
to raise a child...I suppose they're right. I needed to
understand how I came to be, and they needed to understand
who I was. I have a tremendous gift, but I've always kept it
to myself. That was my sin--my vanity in thinking I had been
the only one to earn it. You helped me see that. I asked you to
find a key and you were that key...you were all along. It just
took time to see," Joshua said with hopefulness. Mulder's
beautiful, haunted eyes finally braved to look at him.
"I *shot* you, Joshua."
"You were being used."
"No...I was being used *effectively.* I was being pulled by my
weaknesses and instincts. The things I said..." he broke off,
swallowing hard. "I said things to you no one deserves to
hear..."
"Those weren't your words."
Mulder raised his head, his teeth clenching together. "But they
*were.* Those words were in-me," he said, accenting the last
syllables with a rough poke at his own chest. "In-me. They
found a place buried so deep in my subconscious I didn't even
know it was there. Those words came out of me, Joshua. I'm
deeply ashamed by them. I can't deny what I wrote or said."
"I don't think you should deny it," Joshua said, accepting his
confession in stride. "I think we lose sight of the truth when
we become deaf to what our conscience is trying to say. I
refused to listen to the suggestion that my grandfather might
not have always been the man I knew. That was my mistake.
Maybe you should accept that voice inside you, understand it,
forgive it, and move beyond. In the end they're just words,
Mulder. Nothing more. They mean nothing to me."
Joshua set his hand on the top of Mulder's bare foot. When he
didn't protest, he took a brave scoot forward, laying his head
on the agent's knee. Joshua thought Mulder might push him
away, but instead felt his hand come to rest on the back of his
head.
"I miss you," Joshua whispered. "Come back to me."
He heard Mulder sigh and felt his fingers begin to move
through his hair. "No, Joshua," he said heavily. "It wasn't
meant to be. I should have been stronger. I should have
remembered that anyone who has ever been close to me has
been put in mortal danger. You asked me once why Scully and
I had never made love. It's because we know if we lose sight
of each other for even a moment, one of us will wind up dead.
I can't live without her, and she...I can only hope she's made
this choice for the same reasons. I've already asked Scully to
make this sacrifice with me; I can't ask another. You have a
life, Joshua. One that will be better once we've gone our
separate ways."
Joshua raised his head to look up at his lover, to plead with
him.
"You keep people alive..." he continued, his exhausted face
expressing all the awe and respect he held for Joshua and his
art. "...I destroy them. Sooner or later I destroy even the
people who mean the most to me. I've already fired a gun at
my own head to try and save her from me. I can only hope
I'll remember to check if it's loaded next time."
"No, Mulder." Joshua shook his head, knowing the darkness
that had always haunted Mulder found its counterweight in
himself. "Don't say that to me and expect me to walk away.
You have a place in this world, as obscure as it may seem to
most. You were created for a reason. I've come to understand
the sacrifice involved in bringing an exceptional person to be.
You and I are the same man. We both make choices that keep
us separated from the rest of the world. We found each other
here--you can't tell me that wasn't meant to be."
"I don't have a choice, Joshua. This life chose me."
"We all make choices in how we live, Mulder. You can make a
different choice--leave all this." He smiled and took his hand
wistfully, holding it to his lips. "Come with me, overseas. I'll
show you Vienna, Paris, Cairo, Moscow..."
"I've been to Russia," Mulder said with a small grin. "I didn't
much care for it."
Joshua answered him with a silent laugh. "I knew you would
refuse me. But I couldn't help asking all the same. It's a
fantasy I can't seem to let go of."
Mulder gently fingered a swirl of dark hair over Joshua's ear.
"It's nice to be asked."
Joshua moved up onto his knees to kiss Mulder, softly, just to
the side of his mouth. He didn't get the same polite decline
this time as he had on the ruins. Mulder's eyes were
searching his; his mouth loosened, wanting, but he was afraid
of what damage would be done. Tears came into his eyes.
There was something Mulder needed to say and it pained him
to hold it back.
"Tell me," Joshua said.
"I have to give you up...and it's killing me inside," he said
bravely, his misery falling into a sorrowful grin. Joshua came
up and took the man into his arms, holding him tightly,
pressing his lips to his cheek, reaching for that comfort they
had both been aching for these last several days. Mulder's
arms were warm and strong around him; he felt the
dampness from his eyes as Mulder lowered his face to his
shoulder.
"Don't give me up...don't ever give me up," Joshua whispered
to him as they rocked gently against one another in the pale
light of the shaded window, at home on the lonely side of the
glass.
###
Slowly, deliberately, Joshua stood and took Mulder into his
arms--holding his complete focus on him, kissing his face, his
eyes, his mouth, breathing with him, wanting to make him
feel alive, loved, cherished and desired. This was the sexual
nature of men Joshua had sought to show him. He led Mulder
to the bed, undressing him, kissing him deeply, laying him
down beneath him, patiently coaxing him back to the isolated
serenity they had found together in Sonoma. As they kissed,
Joshua could feel Mulder beginning to accept, reaching for
him with his mouth and arms. Mulder's touches were
hesitant, yet pleading--like the empty arms of a neglected
child, trembling with the need to be held. All those human
comforts Mulder had adapted himself to deny were here for
him--it didn't matter what form the giver took.
Lying together unclothed, limbs entwined, allowing each other
to touch openly and find healing, was all that occupied the
four corners of the room as early evening traveled into night.
A journey had been made--from fantasy to the awakening of
a new passion, the power of physical touch made their bond
stronger. It wasn't a sin that each perhaps still held a kernel
of doubt. The crumbling foundation forbidding this union was
forged in antiquity.
During the slow movements of their embrace, Joshua could
hear Mulder whispering, a phrase over and over. He bent his
head to catch it. "I can be gentle," he breathed, as his lips
touched each tender bump of Joshua's ribs. "I can be gentle."
Joshua sighed when he entered his lover, holding his rough
face to his own, asking him to open his eyes, kissing him
softly, stroking his arm and chest and leg, reassuring him in
any way he could that he was good; he was just. Mulder
deserved to be touched; he deserved to be desired; he
deserved to be forgiven; and he deserved to allow himself to
love. Joshua's arms held on strong, weathering the powerful
motions building between them; and although he remained
quiet, Mulder allowed himself to succumb during those final
releasing moments--his head falling back limp on the pillow,
his face relaxing in peace. Joshua thought maybe there was a
chance his message had been heard.
The intensity of pleasure is fleeting, even when it might
never be had again. But Joshua found the real reward of their
final coupling in the long, still embrace that followed. The
battered witness gathered his protector into his arms and
held him close against his chest, willing him to sleep, stroking
his fingers through his hair. They held each other, wrapped in
blankets, and slept soundly without incident until dawn.
The hardest thing Joshua ever had to do in his life was to slip
his arm out from under his lover's head and dress in the quiet
of morning before the stars had failed. For once he was the
one to leave Mulder asleep and alone in his bed, warmed by
their passing. He kissed him softly on the cheek and opened
the curtains so the soon-to-be-rising sun would wake him. He
said good-bye silently as he slipped out into the hall to face
the long lonely ride to Los Angeles.
**************************************************
Epilogue--four months later
**************************************************
FBI Headquarters
6:05 AM
Monday
Mulder sat in his familiar chair behind his too-neat desk,
staring at a small unopened package addressed to him. It was
early on the morning of his first day back from suspended
leave. Although Skinner had barked the term "ass in a sling"
at him more than usual during the last four months, his shaky
career path was reinstated (after extensive disciplinary
review) thanks in a major part to the supportive first-hand
accounts provided under oath by Scully and Lt. Jarvis
regarding his conduct in San Francisco. Joshua's verbose
written statement vouching for his character was an X-File in
itself, now currently filed under 'transferable demon
possession' somewhere in the bottomless drawers behind him.
Mulder once again made FBI history in being the first agent
"absolved" for shooting a protected witness in the chest at
close range. Skinner hadn't said, but Mulder knew the AD was
somewhat aware it had been a crime of misdirected passion.
Scully had spent these months holding down the fort,
sneaking over to his apartment most evenings with notes and
photographs of the latest paranormal case she herself was
heading with a long-missed enthusiasm. For what it was
worth, his affair had managed to bring them closer. It
managed to reestablish the kind of bonding between two
people that needed no clear definition to exist any more than
his lingering memories of Joshua.
It had been difficult over these long empty days that he'd
spent alone at home, or on long walks around DC, trying to
sort through all the many things that had been said and done
during his weeks in San Francisco. It was hard, that was all he
knew--another loss to bear in a long line of losses Mulder had
experienced throughout his life. Waking that last bright
morning to a cold and empty bed smelling of his lover was
more painful to him than he could have imagined. The
loneliness he carried with him now eclipsed the shame of his
crime. Mulder found himself avoiding elevators and hanging
up whenever he was put on hold. This was the way it had to
be.
Mulder reached into his coat pocket for the postcards he'd
brought in with him and stood up to pin them to his
wallboard one by one. The first had arrived a week after his
return to DC. It came by way of Scully from its sudden
appearance in his FBI office mail. It was a postcard of
Sleeping Beauty's castle lit up at night sent the day of Joshua's
Disneyland Hotel performance in LA. The violinist's message
was short and friendly, discreet. It was an attempt to sustain
contact that Joshua chose to continue week to week, sending
him cards from places Mulder had never been to: Stockholm,
Prague, Lisbon, Rome. Mulder hung them now on his wall. A
growing collection of mini snapshots and foreign stamps, the
postcards were his way of following Joshua's travels as he
made his way over the world. The short lines sounded happy,
but there was a sadness that had been emerging as time
passed and the cards began to arrive less frequently than the
first. Mulder had yet to send a reply.
Satisfied with his thumbtacked arrangement, Mulder sat
down to open the parcel on his desk. It had been shipped a
few days ago care of the Vienna Philharmonic, which was now
winding its way into Russia. Inside was a letter and a flat
object wrapped in bubble wrap. Mulder began with the letter.
Mulder,
As I write this I am sitting at a small child's desk in the
upstairs room of a farm house that has stood near the edge of
the Poltava Valley for over a hundred years. Outside my
window I can see the branches of the cherry trees beginning
to bud across the orchard. It is not yet spring, and still very
cold here on the steppes. I light a fire and pile as many
blankets as they can spare on my bed at night to keep warm.
Ukraine isn't like anyplace on earth I've ever seen. Her people
are quiet and proud and ultimately generous and forgiving. I
hadn't expected to be welcomed into their very homes, but I
feel incredibly blessed to accept the invitations. The child who
used to sleep in this room has grown and moved away, and
his parents were seeking a new 'son' to adopt for the time
being. I have learned many things here, such as the true
definition of 'cold shower,' and how many different Ukrainian
words there are to describe boiled potatoes. So far my hosts
have not complained about the violin and I have not
complained about the chickens who sleep clucking in the
rafters overhead.
I have been here for nearly two weeks, overseeing the final
progress of the grand opening of a makeshift concert hall near
the Chutove village center. When my request was received
four months ago (I cannot believe how much time has passed
since I left the States!) the largest unused structure was
selected--an old granary barn--and architects and structural
engineers from Kiev assembled to conceive and build it. I
wish you could see it--it has a steadfast and rustic charm like
the farmers who still work the surrounding lands. The
acoustics could be more ideal, but my money would only go so
far. Scully might be amused to hear that I ended up
auctioning several collectibles of mine including the once-
seized Louis XIV harpsichord to a private collector in Morocco
to finance this project--not to mention the cost of securing
accommodations for 65 Philharmonic members (not all of
them welcomed the idea of sleeping in drafty farm houses!).
My accountant in New York has threatened to have done with
me if I don't come to my senses soon. News of my efforts
have gladly drawn stories to the world's papers, and
donations to the Recovery Foundation of Poltava Province
have been arriving by the thousands.
Tomorrow night I will play the Sibelius violin concerto for
600 Chutove villagers and their neighbors and friends. It is a
sad and triumphant piece, filled with strife and longing. I
chose it because it reminded me of what I know these people
suffered and yet they are still here--thriving and
independent. My interpretation comes from my experiences
in San Francisco, the images I saw in my dreams, and my
need to try and right that unforgivable wrong. But, just to
cover my bases, I've boned-up on my Ukrainian-traditional
Christmas Carols. All that robust fiddle-playing my
grandfather used to joke about--he was closer to
understanding his past than I imagined. The farmwife whose
care I am under, Olga, has taught me the name of the lullaby I
can now play accurately from memory. It is called "Blessed
are They Who Protect the Sleep of the Innocent."
The Chutove concert is for my people, but I also feel it is for
you. When I play the Adagio di molto I feel Sibelius is
speaking about a passion long left behind. I play for them and
I play for you, but I also play for myself--perhaps I always
will. Perhaps it isn't a sin to let the violin bespeak the
contents of my heart. Perhaps it is simple human honesty that
marks a virtuoso. In case I am wrong, I have also scheduled
the Tchaikovsky for the following night. The audience will
love it--it is familiar to them, and although it means little to
me, I understand now that I can make music beyond my own
experience.
I have been hesitant to write you, to open my heart when I
have received no words from you. I try to believe it is the
difficulty in tracking my progress that keeps you silent. But
logic intervenes and tells me you have your own reasons and
I will need to learn to accept them. But not today. Today I am
happy to be where I am at this small desk writing by
lamplight and happy to be able to hear the sadness and
yearning in the sound of my violin.
Nanette writes to me from France. She is enjoying her
retirement, reacquainting herself with her own country. She
is very happy for me and plans to come to my performance
when we reach Paris. I miss her and know we will have a lot
to talk about.
I feel I have traveled far, but gained little distance from San
Francisco. Inside this box is my final gift to you. Take it--it
was always meant to be yours.
--J
The bubble wrap contained a compact disc recording from
EMI Classics-- "Mendelssohn/Bruch Violin Concerti." It was a
compilation of both Joshua's Mendelssohn and an earlier 1998
recording he'd made of the Max Bruch Concerto. Mulder read
the label on the back.
Felix Mendelssohn, Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64
I--Allegro molto appassionato/Cadenza/Presto
II--Andante
III--Allegretto non troppo/Allegro molto vivace
JOSHUA SEGULYEV, violin
THE SAN FRANCISCO SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA
MICHAEL TILSON THOMAS, conductor
(Cadenza mvt I : Joshua Segulyev)
Joshua's impromptu cadenza, his gift to him, was
immortalized in 78 minutes of digital audio for all eternity.
Mulder opened the case; a message was handwritten on the
inner sleeve.
"Once upon a time there were two princes. Each was given a
magical map that led them on their own separate quest. They
were both gone for years, so long, that when they returned
triumphant there was no one left who could remember them
and they had aged beyond recognition. It is on the ruined
walls of that lost kingdom where we will meet again, my
friend, and we will know one another by name."
Mulder sat quietly for several long moments, staring at the
message and at the silver disc. The CD player Scully had
brought into the office was still sitting atop the desk.
*I think we lose sight of the truth when we become deaf to
what our conscience is trying to say.*
He didn't need to make that same mistake, he decided. He
popped the disc out of its case and slid it into the player. The
Mendelssohn began and Mulder, listened.
*********************************
End
(roll credits)
I do have extensive post-reading author's notes
that I'll post to my site in a few days, discussing some of the
ideas and inspirations behind Cadenza. Come visit if you get a
chance and we'll chat.
www.geocities.com/hotsprings/8334/fic.html
Meanwhile, tell me how you feel at: Terma99@aol.com