The Gargoyle (70 page)

I am more than my scars.

When I returned home after her disappearance, after my initial statements to the police, I went down into the workshop to read what Marianne Engel had carved into the pedestal of my statue.

Dû bist mîn, ich bin dîn:
des solt dû gewis sîn;
dû bist beslozzen in mînem herzen,
verlorn ist daz slüzzelîn:
dû muost och immer darinne sîn.

“You are mine, I am yours; you may be sure of this. You’ve been locked inside my heart, the key has been thrown away; within it, you must always stay.”

Lebrecht Bachenschwanz produced the first known German version of
The Divine Comedy
(
Die göttliche Komödie
) in the years 1767 to 1769, and the translation of
Inferno
in my possession is at least four hundred years older than that. While amazing, this hardly proves that Marianne Engel translated the book in the first half of the fourteenth century; it only means that
someone
did. But if Marianne Engel was not the translator, how did the book come to rest in her safety deposit box? How did it exist for almost seven centuries with absolutely no record of its existence? As with so many things, I don’t know.

I’ve written so much about the German translation that you might assume there’s nothing exceptional about the Italian original, save its age. I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. There are a few defects in the manuscript’s condition that, while lowering the book’s monetary value, are of considerable interest to me.

It is obvious that the book was in a fire at one point. The pages are singed at the edges, but the flames did not creep far enough inwards to burn away any of the words. Somehow, the book was spared extensive fire damage; in fact, it is the other flaw that is more obvious.

There is a wide cut through the book’s front cover, produced by a sharp instrument. A knife or an arrow, perhaps. The cut penetrates into the book’s body so that when the cover is opened, there is a slit of almost equal size on the first page. This slit, situated in the middle of each page, becomes smaller the deeper one turns into the book. The back cover of the book bears only a small exit wound; it’s apparent that the sharp instrument was almost, but not quite, stopped by the thickness of the manuscript.

It took me a long time to work up the courage to remove my neck chain and insert the arrowhead into the wound of the manuscript’s cover. It slid in perfectly, like a key finding the correct lock. I pushed further until the arrowhead was engulfed by the book and its tip just barely peeked through the slit in the back cover.

These days, I like to imagine that if a man were to enter through that slash on the book’s cover, as if it were a door, he could walk right into the very heart of
Inferno
.

There were a number of reasons that Jack and I decided not to get a grave for Marianne Engel, but two stood above all others. First, it felt strange with no actual body to place into it. And second, who would visit this grave, anyway, except the two of us?

I don’t want to visit a grave.

Every day I wake up with Bougatsa sleeping at my feet. I feed him raw pancreas, and then we load ourselves into the car to head to the ocean.

I look out over the ocean as the sun rises. It’s my vigil, an hour of the day devoted to remembering Marianne Engel, and it’s also the only time that I allow myself in the direct sunlight. Too much exposure is not good for my skin, but I like the warmth on my face.

Bougatsa usually runs around, picking up little pieces of driftwood in his mouth and then dropping them at my feet. He begs me to throw them for him, and I do, and then he goes bounding out into the tide. But there are some mornings when he doesn’t feel like running and just lies at my feet staring at the ocean. It’s just like the night she walked in; it’s as if he still expects that she will come wading back out to us. I guess he doesn’t know any better. He’s just a stupid dog.

All the while, I’m composing in my mind. These pages that you have now read, most of them originated at my lonely command post at the edge of the world where the earth falls into the sea. I have spent much time there, in this grand empty space between memory and desire, creating this cracked empire of sentences in which I now live.

I wanted to write this book to honor her but I have failed, just like all the times that I failed her in life. I know my words are nothing more than pale ghosts, but I need Marianne Engel to exist somewhere.

Every Good Friday, this anchored yet ever-changing anniversary of my accident, I go to the little creek that saved my life and light one more candle. I offer thanks for two facts: that I am one year older, and that I am one year closer to death.

When Marianne Engel gave me the arrowhead, she said that I would know what to do with it when the time comes. But I already know. I shall wear it always and proudly, and when I am an old man and my living is done, I will slip the arrowhead from my necklace. I’ll place it on a shaft, straight and true, and I will ask a dear friend to shoot that arrow through my heart. Perhaps that friend will be Gregor, or Sayuri; perhaps it will be someone I haven’t met yet. The arrow will fly to my chest and split open my birth-scar like a seal that has been waiting to be opened.

This will mark the third time that an arrow has entered my chest. The first time brought me to Marianne Engel. The second time separated us.

The third time will reunite us.

Ah, but don’t let me sound too serious. I still have a lifetime of work ahead of me.

After Marianne Engel’s disappearance, I took it upon myself to learn about carving. I suppose my motivation is selfish, because carving helps me feel closer to her. I love the movement of steel against stone. One usually misinterprets rock as unmoving, unforgiving, but it is not: stone is like flowing water, it’s like dancing fire. My chisel moves as if it knows the secret wishes of the stone, as if the statue is guiding the tool. But the strangest thing I’ve discovered is how natural carving seems, as if I have done it before.

My skills are not nearly as developed as Marianne Engel’s were, and when I create a little statue it rarely looks as I imagined. But that’s okay. In fact, it’s not often that I even produce original stonework. More often, I use her tools to chip away at the statue of me that she left behind.

Standing in front of my likeness still embarrasses me a little, but I remind myself that it is not vanity. I am not looking at myself; I am looking at a part of Marianne Engel that remains. And then I lift the chisel and target a small area—the corner of my elbow, a fold in my burned skin—and strike with the hammer. With each stroke, another piece of me falls away. I can only stand to shave off a tiny splinter at a time because each time a stone fragment hits the floor, I am slightly closer to becoming nothing.

The Three Masters stated that Marianne Engel’s lover would know the reason he had to release her final heart, to release her. And I do: the end of her penance was the beginning of mine. Allowing her to walk unhindered into the ocean was only the starting point of my task, because releasing her did not occur in an instant. It is an ongoing process that will last my lifetime, and I will not allow myself to die until I have carved away the last trace of my statue.

With every fragment of rock that falls from me, I can hear the voice of Marianne Engel.
I love you. Aishiteru. Ego amo te. Ti amo. Ég elska Þig. Ich liebe dich.
It is moving across time, coming to me in every language of the world, and it sounds like pure love.

My sincerest thanks to Angela Aki, dear friend and the first person ever to read this book; Bette Alexander and Jolanta Benal, perfectionists; Liuba Apostolova, who is made of starlight; Marty Asher, Jamie Byng, Anne Collins, Gerry Howard, Anya Serota, and Bill Thomas, the early believers; the Brattis, my second family; all the staff at Canongate, Doubleday, Janklow & Nesbit, and Random House Canada; Dr. Linda Dietrick and Dr. Ann-Catherine Geuder, advisors on all matters Germanic; the editors (Anne, Gerry, and Anya) who, with elegant scalpels, helped debride the dead parts; Dr. Kathy J. Edwards, who patiently answered all my burning questions; John Fontana, who makes me look good; Helen Hayward, killer teacher; my international proofreaders Kyoko Aoyama, Yoichi Takagi, and Miko Yamanouchi (Japanese), Úa Matthíasdóttir (Icelandic), and Giuseppe Strazzeri (Italian); Eric Simonoff, the novel’s greatest champion; Dorothy Vincent, who took the book around the world; the publishing assistants essential to getting things done, particularly Katie Halleron, Eadie Klemm, and Alexa Von Hirschberg; Joe Burgess, Kirby Drynan, Liz Ericksson, Kevin and Alex Hnatiuk, Alison and Helen Ritchie, and Paige Wilson, friends with feedback; my family, nuclear and extended, for their support and love; and Harley and Fjola, for everything.