The Memorist

Chapter 108

Vienna, Austria

Friday, May 2^nd-12:15 p.m.

Dappled light filtered through new leaves in the run-down Jewish section of the cemetery, casting green shadows on Meer’s hands and face. Standing alone under a tall chestnut tree, she watched people arrive and gather by the gravesite. Among them she recognized the nine men who, with her father, had made up the minyan that chanted the prayer for the dead over Ruth Volker’s coffin the week before.

Today they were here to pray over his ashes. It was against the orthodox Jewish religion to be cremated but Jeremy had stipulated it in his will and late last night, his rabbi gave his blessing and the function had been performed.

“Before I begin today’s ceremony,” Rabbi Tischenkel said, “I want to tell you about your father’s last wishes.” He nodded at the silver jar he was holding. “He asked that only half of his ashes be buried here and for you to throw the other half into the Ganges River.” The rabbi paused, but before he could continue, Meer interrupted.

“The Ganges?”

“I know. I asked too. He told me that according to ancient beliefs, if your ashes are returned to the Ganges, you get to skip over a few reincarnations and save yourself some time. A shortcut, so to speak.” Tischenkel smiled sadly.

The sun reflected off the urn and shone into Meer’s eyes.

“Your father also wanted me to tell you to rest your heart about the flute,” Tischenkel added.

Meer felt as if across time her father was giving his blessing over what she’d done with the precious instrument. Except…some thing didn’t make sense. “Rabbi, when was my father’s will written?”

“About ten years ago.”

“Did you witness it?”

“Yes, I did. I was there.”

“Was it amended in the last few weeks to add that message about the flute?”

“No, it was in the original. Why?”

“How could my father have known about the flute ten years ago? The Memorists believed Beethoven destroyed it in 1814. It wasn’t until my father found the letter in the gaming box two weeks ago that anyone imagined the flute still existed.”

The rabbi shrugged again. “I’m afraid it’s a mystery to me.”

“You’re certain he didn’t add that in the last few weeks?”

“Yes, I am,” he said sympathetically. “It was in the original.”

Meer shook her head.

“That’s not the answer you expected?” Tischenkel asked.

“No.”

Another shrug. “Well, it’s one you’re going to have to learn to accept on faith. Along with all its ramifications.” His smile was enigmatic. “The Kabbalah says if we have not fulfilled our condition during one life, we must commence another…until we have acquired the condition that fits our reunion with God. Maybe your father lived some of this before.” He handed her the urn. “I’ll tell you when it’s appropriate and you can pour half of them in the grave.”

Meer took it and shivered. Cold wrapped around her. Too sad, too confused and too tired to fight, she disappeared into the freezing miasma.