The Gargoyle (27 page)

When I presented Marianne Engel my theory that no one needs to read
Inferno
to know its representation of Hell, she was quick to correct me. “While that may be true for most people, you know it so well because I read you my German translation.”

“Uh-huh.” I hadn’t seen that coming. “When did you translate it?”

“I suppose about ten or twenty years after Dante finished writing it. It took me quite a while. I’m pretty sure I was
Inferno
’s first translator, but you can never be positive about these things.”

“And when did you read it to me?” I asked.

“When you were recovering from your first burn.”

Inferno
was first published in
A.D
. 1314. If Marianne Engel completed her translation twenty years later, the year would have been approximately 1334. Given her earlier claim that she was born in the year 1300, this would put her in her mid-thirties at the time.

As I detail these numbers, I’m not forgetting that this is ludicrous and could not have actually occurred. I’m simply pointing out that, at least, the impossible things were occurring in a possible timeline. This is what I find rather amazing about her mental state: her wild statements were held together by internal consistency.

Because I didn’t live in the Middle Ages, I needed to do a lot of research during the writing of this book to check what she said, or what I remember her saying, against facts. The interesting thing is that all the events she claimed were true
could have
happened exactly as she described them, had she not been talking about ancient events in the first person.

Despite being under the control of the Church, Engelthal
was
a democratic institution whose prioress was elected. All daily activities
were
outlined in the Orders of the Constitution. Marianne Engel’s descriptions of the architecture, the prayers, the books studied, and the rituals for eating
were
accurate. Christina Ebner
was
in that monastery and she did write
The Sister-book of Engelthal
and
Revelations.
Friedrich Sunder
was
a local priest, the confessor to the nuns, and he did write
Gnaden-vita.
There
was
a book called
The Vita of Sister Gertrud of Engelthal,
written with the help of a Brother Heinrich and Cunrat Fridrich.

While there is no record of Heinrich Seuse having visited Engelthal, there is also no way to prove that he did not do so. If he did come during the early 1320s, as Marianne Engel claimed, this
was
when he was traveling from Straßburg to Köln to study under Meister Eckhart. So who’s to say he didn’t visit the monastery that was widely regarded as the foremost center of German mysticism?

Still. No matter how perfectly she constructed her timelines or researched German religious figures, Marianne Engel was either schizophrenic or manic depressive, or both. I cannot forget this. Creating and managing imaginary universes is the province of such people: it’s not only what they do, it’s who they are. And there
were
some seeming discrepancies in Marianne Engel’s account; for example, there is no record of a Sister Marianne in any of the extant writings from Engelthal, nor is there any mention of
Die Gertrud Bibel,
and I tried to use these omissions to force Marianne Engel into admitting her story was not true.

“You are studious, aren’t you?” she said. “Don’t worry, there’s a reason you can’t find information on me or on Gertrud’s Bible. We’ll get to it, I promise.”

Goodwill carolers dropped in to sing about silent nights, holy nights. A Sally Ann Santa brought cookies and books. Decorations went up along the hallways.

How strange it was to be looking forward to the holiday season. Traditionally, I’d hated Christmas; it always left a taste in my mouth akin to moldy fruitcake. (By this, I do not mean an elderly Japanese spinster.) In my childhood, I’d had a succession of Christmases when the Graces spent the money originally intended for my presents on methamphetamine; in my adulthood, Christmas meant fucking a woman who was wearing a red felt hat.

I still had my exercise sessions, my regular medical procedures, but the most interesting event was to be a meeting of the important women of my life: Nan, Sayuri, and Marianne Engel. I had no clue as to its agenda and, strangely, no one wanted to tell me. In my ego-centric little heart, I imagined it might be a surprise party. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Sayuri arrived first. I’ve mentioned before that she always seemed to carry her tiny body behind a gigantic smile, but on this day only the tiny body was present. When I asked whether everything was okay, she answered unpersuasively that it was. Rather than push the subject, I asked whether she’d bought my gift for Gregor yet. She replied that she had and in this, at least, I believed her. I was going to ask a few more questions when Marianne Engel and Nan entered the room like horses jockeying for position. Marianne Engel looked directly at me and stated: “When you get out of here, you’re coming with me.”

“Not so fast,” Nan said sharply, before turning her attention on me. “As you know, you’ll probably be released in a few months—”

“—and then you’re coming to live in my house.” The impatience in Marianne Engel’s voice betrayed that she thought this meeting was unnecessary.

“Calm down.” Nan held up her hand while shooting Marianne Engel an exasperated look. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Nan countered, “I’ve already arranged for a place in Phoenix Hall.”

“He doesn’t want to live there.” Which was true, I didn’t, but Dr. Edwards had long been recommending it because of its highly trained workers, job placement programs, and proper medical supplies. In addition, it had counselors, not to mention other burn patients who would be facing the same challenges as I.

“I work with the patients at Phoenix,” Sayuri said, “so if you go there, we can continue your gait training.”

“I’ll hire you,” Marianne Engel said. “Money isn’t a problem. You can do it at my house.”

This suggestion made Sayuri look towards Dr. Edwards uneasily. “I don’t know hospital policy on that.”

Nan replied that beyond policy issues, Phoenix Hall had a host of professionals,
all
ready to offer their expertise. Marianne Engel reiterated that she was willing to provide whatever I needed. “If Mizumoto san is too busy, we’ll hire someone else. But we’d prefer to have her, because we like her.”

She wheeled around to look directly at me, and finally asked what I wanted. “Do you want to go to this Phoenix place?”

“No.”

“Do you want to come to my house?”

“Yes.”

Marianne Engel turned her attention back to Dr. Edwards. “There. Discussion finished.”

It might have been prudent to claim that I needed time to think. After all, I had just chosen Marianne Engel over the doctor who’d been expertly guiding my recovery for months. My hasty answer was, to say the least, illogical.

If there was one thing I could be certain about, however, it was that everyone in the room truly had my best interests at heart. I hadn’t known that Marianne Engel and Nan had been arguing about my living arrangements for weeks; since I saw both of them almost daily, this could only have occurred if they were working together to hide it in order to keep my stress level as low as possible.

“There’s still plenty of time to make an informed decision,” Nan said, indicating that this discussion was anything but finished. It was not lost on anyone how heavily she stressed the word
informed
.

There were practical concerns that I could not ignore in regard to living with Marianne Engel. One was that, although she said she had plenty of money, she probably couldn’t afford me.

Housing a burn patient is incredibly expensive. Beyond my treatment costs—Sayuri’s fees, medical supplies, exercise equipment—there would be regular living expenses. Food. Clothes. Entertainment. Utilities. She would have to pay the costs of my life not only as a patient, but as a man as well. While there might be government programs or charities that would contribute to my care, I doubted Marianne Engel would ask for their assistance; her personality being what it was, I expected pride, paperwork, and privacy issues would prevent her from even looking into it. She claimed to have the resources to support me, but I could hardly accept this as fact—a shoeful of hundred-dollar bills was not enough to convince me of her fortune. Was this money as much a fantasy as most other aspects of her life? Was I to believe that she had been saving her pennies for seven hundred years?

Not only was living with her fiscally questionable, it was also morally suspect. As the basis of the offer was her belief that her “last heart” was for me, I would clearly be taking advantage, under false pretenses, of a confused woman. As the sane one, not only did I know better, I was obligated to act upon the fact that I knew better. And in any case, why should I put myself in the position of depending upon a mentally ill woman whom I hardly knew? Although my circumstances had changed and I was less physically able than previously, I had been on my own since my teens. Before that, even: as guardians, the Graces had been competent only at guarding their drug stashes. For all intents and purposes, I had looked after myself since I was six years old.

So I had been mistaken in accepting Marianne Engel’s offer, and Nan had been correct. I would reverse my rash decision and enter Phoenix Hall after all.

When Gregor came by that afternoon to drop off Sayuri’s present, he congratulated me on my decision to move in with Marianne Engel. When I informed him that I’d changed my mind, he backtracked and said that I had made the only logical decision. “I think your progress has been fantastic under the guidance of Dr. Edwards. I hold her in the highest esteem.”

I knew Gregor well enough to recognize when he was not saying all that he was thinking. This was one of those times. “But…?”

Gregor looked to the left, and then to the right, to ensure that no one was around to overhear him. “But even monkeys fall from trees.”

I had no idea what this meant, so Gregor explained:
Even experts make mistakes
. “While Dr. Edwards is your physician, and a good one, I don’t think you should underestimate Marianne’s effect on your recovery, either. She comes every day, she helps with your exercises, and it’s obvious that she cares deeply about you. God knows why. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

HE THINKS YOUR NUTJOB GIRLFRIEND IS SERIOUS ABOUT YOU.

Shut up, fuck.
I corrected Gregor. “She’s delusional.”

“Go ahead and deny it,” he said, “but it’s obvious.”

THAT’S SO CUTE.

I wasn’t going to bother arguing the point; I didn’t feel up to that. “What would you do?”

“I’d be worried about living with Marianne, too,” he said, “but you’re no prize, either. If you can put up with each other, I think you should do it.”

“Even if she is fond of me—and I’m not saying that she is—I’m not really sure how I feel about her.” I paused. “I don’t know.”