The righteous men

CHAPTER FORTY

Sunday, 4.04pm, Manhattan

'And when did it arrive?'

'Just now. This second.'

'Well, the first conclusion we can draw is that Yosef Yitzhok was not our informant after all.'

'We can't be certain of that, TO. His killer may have grabbed his phone and carried on sending messages.' As he said it, Will saw the absurdity of his suggestion. What were the chances that an assailant would steal a phone, check the 'sent' file and carry on sending perfectly coded messages in the same vein? Besides, there was an easy way to check.

'Sandy, can you do me a favour? Call home and find out if anyone took Yosef Yitzhok's phone when he was killed.'

Now talking back into the mouthpiece, to TO, he offered another theory. 'What if someone stole his phone in the first place?'

'Well, then it wouldn't have been YY sending the messages at all, would it?' TO was getting exasperated. Fearful of returning to her own apartment, she had fled to Central Park.

To her great relief, she had run into some people she knew: married friends, with plenty of kids. As Will could hear through the phone, she had stuck herself in the middle of the group. The strollers, toddlers and picnic blankets would, she reckoned, serve as a security cordon, keeping the stalkers and kidnappers at bay. Listening to the sounds of childhood chatter, of softball games and a mother handing out cake, Will felt a pang of envy or, rather, longing — longing for a Sunday afternoon of relaxed, sun-kissed normality.

'You mean, it was someone else all along.'

'I think so, yes. YY is dead but the messages have not stopped. Ergo, he wasn't the one sending them.'

'So why would they kill him?'

'Who?'

'The Hassidim.'

'We don't know it was the Hassidim who killed him. That's just another conclusion you're jumping to. The truth is, Will, we know hardly anything. We can guess and speculate and theorize, but we know very little.'

'What about the drawing in the library. Did you see anything?'

'I think it's probably telling us something very simple. It's saying, "Think kabbalah". The image is so complex, full of so many component parts, it can't be about any one bit. It's just the general idea. That diagram is the fundamental building block of all kabbalah. It's almost like a logo.'

'Hang on. There's another one coming now. I'll call you back.'

He walked as he pressed the buttons to reveal the latest message, one which he willed to be clear. Now that he did not have TO at his side, he desperately needed a little simplicity.

Behold the lord of the heavens but not of Hell.

They only had to walk a few blocks north to find the junction which the earlier message had directed them to: Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue. That was where they stood now.

Looming over them was the gothic fortress of St Patrick's Cathedral where, little more than a week ago, he had sat rapt, listening to The Messiah with his father. A week ago but a different lifetime.

His father. A spasm of guilt passed through Will: he had barely included him in this search. It was obvious he wanted to help; he had made that clear last night and again this morning, even doing his bit to decipher the text messages.

Yet Will had been impatient, happy to use his father as a glorified chauffeur and not much more. Perhaps for all the effort of the last few years, the two of them were not as close as Will liked to believe. Most men would probably have looked to their fathers to be their chief ally in a crisis like this, but Will was not most men. He had lived the bulk of his childhood, his formative years, a continent away.

Looking at it now, Will remembered his initial impression of the cathedral when he had first arrived in New York. It struck him as vaguely ridiculous. Despite his love of old buildings, this vast, vaulted structure, which would have fitted in fine in Paris, London or Rome, looked absurd in the middle of Manhattan. Sandwiched between steel and glass skyscrapers, its arched windows, crenellated towers and heaven piercing spires were not only out of place but out of time.

They seemed to embody a kind of futility, an attempt to hold back the onrush of modernity. This was the fastest city in the world and the cathedral stood implacably at its centre — trying to stop the clock.

What could it mean? Beckoning Sandy to follow him, he waded through the tourist throng and stepped inside, enveloped immediately in the deferential hush vast houses of worship wreathe around themselves like fog. Will marched forward, his eyes scanning for anything that might fit that message. Who was lord of the heavens but not of hell?

He looked over his shoulder. Sandy had barely advanced from the door; he was gawping at the impossibly high ceiling, then startled by the rebounding echo. Clearly, he had never been in such a building before. The contrast with the lino-and fake-panelled gymnasium that served as the Hassidim's synagogue had overwhelmed him. Will remembered something his father had once said, that religious people had much in common, even when they did not share a faith: 'The same magic works on all of them.' There was no doubt about it:

Sandy was moved to be here.

Will, who had gone to school and college in buildings older than this one, was not overawed by the cold stone floors or medieval architecture. He was on a mission, to find a lord of heaven but not of hell. He faced the Grand Organ and then the smaller Chancel Organ. He checked out the altar and the pulpit, raised like the crow's nest of a ship. He examined the narrow shelves holding glass jars for the lighting of candles, and the boxes of new ones, available free of charge. He had a look at the small, private chapel, apparently closed off for private ceremonies. He looked upward, to see two flags: the first belonging to the United States, the second to the Vatican.

He had no idea what he was looking for.

He walked the length of the nave, studying the blocks of pews. He glanced up at the loudspeakers and screens attached to the pillars. There were tapestries with inscriptions, but no reference that might fit the message. There were stained-glass windows with pictures of saints, shepherds and the odd serpent. Will thought he saw an angel or two.

Hold on. Directly above, dominating the space around, was a huge crucifix, with a sculpted Jesus. It was picked out in strobing white light, as tourists queued to photograph it.

Was this the lord of the heavens but not of hell? After all, the underworld was the realm of Lucifer rather than Jesus.

Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe he was meant to look at Jesus. But then what?

He wished TO was with him, another pair of eyes, another brain. Sandy was nice enough, but he did not have the kind of laser observation or brainpower Will was sure he needed right now.

Will headed for the exit, shoving a dollar bill in the glass box marked for donations — and filled with what seemed to be the coins of a thousand nations.

Outside, he dialled TO's number. 'Look, we've been inside the cathedral. I'm meant to be finding the lord of the heavens but not of hell. There's nothing that seems to connect with that. Nothing I can see. Yeah, I've walked up and down. It's just pews, crucifix-'

He could feel Sandy tugging at his elbow. He tried to shake him off, but the tug was persistent.

'What is it? I'm talking to TO 'Look.' Sandy was pointing, not back at the cathedral but directly across the street.

'TO, I'll call you back.'

They were facing the Rockefeller Center, Sandy breaking into a semi-jog so they could get a closer look. Barely checking the traffic, he crossed the street, Will behind him, until they were standing before it.

Or, rather, him. Even in shimmering metal, his stomach rippled, the lines of a perfect, mythic abdomen. His thighs were enormous, each one as thick as a bison. One leg was placed before the other, in the manner of a weight-lifter steadying himself. Except this was no ordinary weight.

His arms were fully outstretched at his sides, curving slightly upward to mould themselves around his load. For there, on his shoulders, was nothing less than the universe itself, rendered as an intersecting series of circles, like the lines of latitude and longitude that girdle the globe. On each of the metal arcs were marked the names of the planets. They were looking at the Rockefeller Center's largest sculpture, the two ton statue of Atlas.

'Behold the lord of the heavens but not of hell.' Sandy was murmuring the words almost to himself.

'I can see why he's the lord of the heavens,' said Will. 'But what's the hell thing?'

Sandy was struggling to get the words out. He was panting with exhilaration. 'It's a famous thing about this statue. When they did it-'

'Yes?'

'-they hadn't discovered Pluto yet. So there's no Pluto on here.'

'And Pluto's the God of the underworld,' whispered Will. Behold the lord of the heavens but not of Hell. This was the right spot. He dialled TO's number and instantly described what he could see.

'OK, you need to pick me up,' she said. 'And then we'll go to your apartment.'

'Why?'

'Because I think I finally know what's going on. And Atlas has just confirmed it.'

There was no time to be self-conscious. Even so, he could tell TO felt strange to be in this place, the home of the man she had once loved and the woman he had made his wife.

He saw her stealing glances at the photographs, especially the wedding collage — perhaps two dozen pictures, pressed under glass — that hung in their kitchen.

If it was odd for TO, it was horrible for Will. He had not been back since the day Beth went missing, visiting here only in his mind. Now he saw the calendar, covered in Beth's handwriting. He saw a cardigan of hers, slung over a chair.

He felt her absence so strongly, it made his eyes sting.

TO, you have to tell me what's going on.' Throughout their journey from Central Park, from the moment they had ditched Sandy, he had been pressing her to talk. But she was adamant.

'Will, I'm not sure I'm right. And I know you: the moment I start talking, you'll run off and do something and it could be a big mistake. We have to get this right. One hundred per cent right. There's no room for guesswork.'

'OK, I promise I won't run anywhere. Just tell me.'

'You can't make that promise. And I don't blame you. Trust me, Will. Please.'

'So when am I going to find out?'

'Soon. Tonight.'

'You'll tell me tonight?'

'You'll find out tonight. It won't be me who tells you.'

'Look, TO. Seriously. I've just about had it with riddles. What do you mean, it won't be you who tells me?'

'We're going to Crown Heights. That's where the answer is.'

'We? You mean, you're coming with me? 'Yes, Will. It's about time.'

'Yeah, that's true, I mean it makes sense-' Will stopped himself. TO was staring at him expectantly. It took him a while to realize what her expression meant. She was waiting for him to ask another question.

'What do you mean, "it's about time"?'

'Haven't you guessed, Will? This whole weekend, everything we've been doing? You really haven't guessed?'

'Haven't guessed what?'

She was turning away, avoiding his gaze. 'Oh, Will. I'm really surprised.'

His voice rising: 'What are you surprised at? What are you talking about?'

'This is very hard for me, Will. I don't quite know how to say it. But it's about time I went, you know, back.'

'Back? To Crown Heights?'

'Yes, Will. Back to Crown Heights. I thought you'd guess ages ago. And I've been meaning to say something, but the moment never felt right. There's been so much to think about, so much to work out. The Hassidim, the kidnapping and… Beth. But you have a right to know the truth.

'So here is the truth. My name is Tova Chaya Lieberman.

I was born in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. I am the third of nine children. There's a reason I know this world, Will. I've always known it, inside out. It's my world. These crazy Hassidim? I'm one of them.'

Will could say nothing. He sat pressed against the back of the sofa, as if pinned there by a fierce wind. He listened hard, his mind trying to absorb everything TO was saying. But it was also racing, rewinding wildly through the events of the last forty-eight hours, seeing each moment in a new light.

And not just the last forty-eight hours, but the last five or six years. Every experience he and TO had shared now looked utterly, entirely different.

'You saw those families with a dozen children. That's what my family was like. I was number three and there were six more after me. Me and my older sister, we were like mini moms: cleaning and preparing meals for the babies from the day we were old enough to do it.'

'And did you, you know, look like that?'

'Oh yes. The whole business: long dresses brushing the floor, mousy hair, glasses. And my mother wore a wig.'

'A wig?'

'I never explained that to you, did I? Remember, the women with "unnaturally straight" hair you saw, and how they all seemed to wear their hair in the same style? Those were sheitls, wigs worn by married women as an act of modesty: they're only meant to show their real hair to their husbands.'

'Right.'

'I know you think it's weird, Will, but what you've got to realize is, I loved it. I lapped it all up. I would read these folk tales in the Tzena Arenna, old legends of the Baal Shem Tov-'

Will turned his face into a question mark.

'The founder of Hassidism. All these stories of wise men journeying through the forest, paupers revealed as men of great piety and honoured by God. I loved it.'

'So what changed?'

'I must have been about twelve. I would doodle in my exercise books a lot. But at that age I started surprising myself with what I could do. Even I could see the drawings were becoming more elaborate and, you know, quite good. But there were so few pictures to look at. You see, ultra-orthodox Jews are not that big on graven images. There were hardly any around. And then, one day at sem — sorry, seminary; kind of the girls' school — I found one of those "Introduction to the Great Painters" books. On Vermeer. I stole it and hid it under my pillow. I'm not kidding, for months I would wait till my sisters were asleep and then, under the covers, I'd stare at these beautiful pictures. Just staring at them. I knew then that's what I wanted to do.'

'You started painting.'

'No. There was never any time. At sem, it was just study, study, study. Holy texts. At home I had to clean, cook, change diapers, play with the baby, help the younger ones with their homework. I shared my room with two sisters. I had no time and no space.'

'You must have gone out of your mind.'

I did. I'd dream every day how I could get out. I wanted to go to the Metropolitan Museum. To see the Vermeer. But it wasn't just the painting.'

'Go on.'

'I know this sounds funny, given what I'm like now, but I was really good at religious studies.'

'No, sorry, I don't find that surprising at all.'

'I was top of my class. I found it easy. The texts, all those multiple meanings and cross-references, they just seemed to open up to me. Once a rabbi told me I was as good as any boy.'

'Oh dear.'

'I was furious. It was like, girls are only meant to go so far. Once you're seventeen or eighteen you become a woman — and that means getting married, having babies, keeping house. Men could carry on at the yeshiva forever, but girls were only allowed to acquire the basics. Then we had to stop.

Those were the rules. Five Books of Moses, a bit of Gemara maybe. That's a kind of rabbinic commentary. But that was it.'

'So all this kabbalah, you never studied that.'

'Wasn't allowed. Only men over forty can even look at it, remember.'

'Christ.'

'Exactly. You know me, if there's a forbidden zone, I want to go there. I found the odd book among my father's things, but I knew I couldn't do this on my own. I needed a guide.

So I asked Rabbi Mandelbaum.'

'Who?'

'The one who told me I was as good as a boy. I told him I wanted to study. I came to him with all the relevant texts that proved I had the right, as a woman, to know what was in those books.'

'And did he agree? Did he teach you?'

'Every Tuesday evening, a secret class at his house. The only other person who knew about it was his wife. She would bring a glass of lemon tea for him, a glass of milk for me and rugelach, little pastry cakes, for both of us. We did that for five years.' She was smiling.

'What happened?'

'He got worried. Not for his sake — he was too old to care what people thought — but for me. I was approaching "the age of marriage". He told me, "Tova Chaya, it would take a very strong man not to feel threatened by so learned a wife".

I think he was worried that he had ruined me: that, thanks to him, I would not be happy keeping house. I wouldn't be a good wife like Mrs Mandelbaum. He had lifted my sights.

In a way he was right.

'But he needn't have worried; by then I had planned my escape. I applied to Columbia; I gave a PO Box address so that no one would see the correspondence. I applied for tons of scholarships, so that I could afford a room. I presented myself as an independent adult; as far as the college were concerned, I had no parents.

'So when the day came, I gave the kids breakfast, as always, called out goodbye to my mother, as always, and I walked to the subway station.'

'And you never went back.'

'Never.'

Will's mind was speeding, spilling with questions. But he was also overrun with answers. Suddenly, he saw so much that had been hidden. TO was no toddler nickname, its origins forgotten. It was a vestige of Tova Chaya's former life. And no wonder TO's parents were such a mystery: they were from a past she had abandoned. Of course there were no pictures: that would have betrayed her secret.

'Do they even know you're alive?'

'I speak to them by phone, before the major festivals. But I haven't seen them since I was seventeen.'

In an instant, TO made sense. Of course she was brilliant but knew nothing of pop music and junk TV: she had grown up without them. Of course she spoke no French or Spanish: she had devoted her time to Yiddish and Hebrew instead.

Will suddenly thought of TO's eating habits — the fondness for Chinese food, studded with jumbo prawns, the fry-up breakfasts, with generous rations of bacon. She loved all that stuff. How come? 'The zeal of a convert,' she said wryly.

Now that he had been to Crown Heights himself, Will realized the scale of TO's rupture from her upbringing. He looked at her now: the tight top revealing the shape of her breasts; the exposed midriff; the navel stud. He thought back to the notice he had seen in Crown Heights.

Girls and women who wear immodest garments, and thereby call attention to their physical appearance, disgrace themselves…

Her break from Hassidism could not have been more complete. And he was forgetting the biggest rebellion of all: him.

People from her world did not have sex outside marriage.

They rarely married people from outside their own sect of Hassidism, let alone non-Jews. Yet she had had a long, physical relationship with him — not her husband and not a Jew.

For him it had been a wonderful romance. He now understood that for her it had been a revolution.

He suddenly saw TO differently. He imagined her as she would have been: a bright, studious girl of Crown Heights groomed for a life of modesty, child-rearing and dutiful observance.

What a journey she had made, crossing this city and centuries of tradition and taboo. He stood up, walked over to her and gave her a long, warm hug.

'It's a privilege to meet you, Tova Chaya.'