The Demonologist

Chapter 4

I’m thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, the only passenger with his reading light on in the business-class cabin as Tess dozes fitfully beside me, her closed journal on her lap, when for the first time since the Thin Woman visited my office I let my mind turn to what could possibly await me in Venice.

Yesterday offered such a variety of curveballs it’s been difficult to decide which to field first—my best friend’s terminal illness, the once-and-for-all failure of my marriage, or why an emissary suspected to be from an agency of the Church would offer me a pile of dough to visit—well, visit what? The only aspect of my expertise she specifically cited was my knowledge of Milton’s work. No, not even that. A demonologist.

Even here, in our floating Boeing hotel, I don’t feel comfortable following this line of thought, however absurd. So I return to my reading. A stack of books all belonging to what, in truth, is my favorite genre. The travel guide.

I am the sort of bookwormy fellow who has read about places more than he has visited them. And for the most part I’d rather read about them than visit them. It’s not that I dislike the far away, but that I am always aware of my own foreignness, an alien among natives. It’s how I feel, in varying degrees, no matter where I am.

Still, I’m looking forward to Venice. I’ve never been, and its fantastical history and storied loveliness is something I’m eager to share with Tess. My hope is that the beauty of the place will shake her out of her current state of mind. Maybe the spontaneity of this adventure and the magnificence of the destination will be enough to return the brightness to her eyes.

So I keep reading the blood-soaked back stories of the city’s monuments, the wars waged for land, for trade, for religion. Along the way I note the restaurants and sites that stand the best chance of pleasing Tess. I will be the most well-informed, customized tour guide for her that I can be.

The trip has already been sort of thrilling. Tess telling Diane about our plans just this morning (she asked few questions, the calculations of how all this would give her some unexpected time with Will Junger playing across her eyes), and then the harried packing, the trip to the bank for euros (the Thin Woman’s certified check cashing smoothly into my account), and the limo ride out to Kennedy, the two of us giggling in the backseat like school friends playing hooky.

Because there wasn’t time to call, I texted O’Brien from the airport. I debated over how much of the trip to tell her about. Describing the Thin Woman on a cell-phone keyboard in the first-class lounge proved impossible, as did the parameters of my “consultation” on a “case,” about which nothing has been revealed, other than my over-generous compensation. In the end, I wrote only:

Off to Venice (the Italian one, not the Californian one) with Tess. Back in a couple days. Explanation TK.

Her reply came almost instantly.

WTF?

I get up to stretch my legs. The jet humming and whistling, soothing as a mechanical womb. This, and the sleeping passengers on either side of me, give the odd impression that I am a transatlantic ghost, hurtling through space, the only wakeful spirit in the night.

But there’s another. An elderly man standing between the washroom cubicles at the top of the aisle, looking down at his shoes in the way of the politely bored. When I approach he looks up at me and, as though in recognition of an unexpected companion, he smiles.

“I am not alone,” he says in welcome. His accent charmingly Italian flavored. His face mildly lined and handsome as a commercial actor’s.

“I was reading.”

“Yes? I, too, am a lover of books,” he says. “The great books. The wisdom of man.”

“Just travel guides, in my case.”