Friday, November 18, 2005

Chapter Sixteen - The Gospel According to Benjamin

Boy Benjamin enjoyed the company of his private gospel choir, usually affiliated with St. Macdalena's but more familiar in this capacity, because he often tasked them to entertain his lonely hours. Presently they performed "Idumea" for him, and all he could do was lose himself in its haunting beauty. The singers were more than up to the task. He had learned this quite unexpectedly, for he was not at all a religious man, but had once been brought to church by his godson, where he found this choir. He knew right away that he needed them. Nothing had ever affected him in quite this way, nothing soothed him quite so deeply. When he listened to them, and especially this song, it was as if there was nothing left for him to worry about.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. This empire he was forging, it had not been a dream of his, but rather something he had inherited, reluctantly, from his uncle, who had seen the effect Benjamin had on people and thought to use it to his advantage. When the older man passed away, Benjamin took over, but his real interest was in trying to discover what had taken his beloved Daniel Russ away. It had not been natural. No one talked about it, but it was evident enough. Someone had murdered his uncle, and everything he had done since was meant to discover who. He never could. For all he knew, those responsible were long gone, but by now he had little other choice in the matter but to continue, both his search and empire building. He owed both to Daniel, whom he imagined would have enjoyed this choir just as enthusiastically. But he wouldn't know. His uncle had always been a personal mystery to him, when he wasn't to anyone else. In time, Benjamin convinced himself that it was because they were so much alike.

In the song he could identify that path his life had taken, both the ease of it and the violence, which he had long ago accepted as a necessity. There was just no way around it. He had become a brutal man, and he didn't mind. Things happened. If he had to be the man who made them happen, so be it. Too many people fooled themselves into thinking they had control of their lives. Benjamin knew he didn't have control, either, at least not all of it, but he had some, so he used it. It's what anyone would have done. There was a greater picture to what he hoped to accomplish, with this power, and not just the search for his uncle's killer. He didn't want to create a new order, because he didn't think it was possible, but he did want as much influence on the order as possible. That's all anyone ever wanted, influence. He was just doing what anyone else would have done. What he did with his influence was made sure things got done. He hated that things could ever be left any other way. He loathed incompetence, and that's all he saw, everywhere he looked.

The choir finished "Idumea," and he contemplated having them sing it again, but he could see in the lead singer's eye that their patience was thin enough. He knew not to push. He asked this song of them too much already, and even if they never wavered in their rendition, they might one day decide to quit him all the same. Not one member of the choir had left, in the five years they'd been performing for him. He suspected it was out of fear, but he never intended them harm. Although he appreciated the respect this indicated. They respected him, out of fear, which was good enough. With a nod, he let Bernard Rose know that the choir could go, but as always, Bernard remained.

"You are as ravenous as always," he said.

"And you are as rapturous as always, Bernard," Benjamin said. "Bravo, etc."

"So I trust you approved," Bernard said, obviously feeling awkward in his robe.

"Make yourself at home," Benjamin said. "How often do you have to come here before you can do that?"

As he removed his robe, revealing a neatly pressed suit beneath it, Bernard remained silent, perhaps considering his response. "You have always been very generous," he finally said.

"I'm not talking about your pension," Benjamin said.

"Neither was I," Bernard said.

"Well, that was awkward," Benjamin said, pulling out a cigar, and then thinking about it, reached for a second.

"I don't smoke," Bernard said.

"Nobody does anymore," Benjamin said, lighting up but leaving the second cigar on his study table, beside the recliner he sat in. Bernard still stood, and held his robe draped over an arm, aware now of all the space in the parlor his choir had previously occupied. It was quite baron.

"I suppose so," he said.

"Well, it's a bunch of hogwash," Benjamin bellowed, his voicing filling the room. His expression turned apologetic. "But that's what people do. They make up their own minds, I suppose. You probably want a chair. Or better still, let's relocate. We should probably do that, unless you want to get going, that is."

"No, no, I can stay a while," Bernard said.

"Good! Good," Benjamin said as he directed them both to a much more comfortable setting, the kitchen, at least one of them, the smallest one. Somehow his cigar was lost along the way, and Bernard could not say when that had happened. It had been a longer journey than he'd expected, and he'd gotten distracted. There were many things to see, but only one portrait. The man within looked nothing like Benjamin. Bernard wondered who it might be, but he wasn't going to ask. He'd never seen the rest of the mansion before, or at least any other room than the entertaining parlor. He wonder why today was different, but he wasn't going to enquire after that, either.

"Tea, maybe?" Benjamin asked, breaking Bernard's revery.

"Yeah, sure," he said.

"Could you turn on the burner?" Benjamin said.

Benjamin found the stove in this kitchen to be something of an antique. He wondered if it would be safe to use, and if his host had any idea if it was, but did not want to say anything. He turned a knob, hopefully, and announced, "Ready for a pot."

"Good," Benjamin said. He was busy locating a box of tea, opening it, and withdrawing a couple of bags. It was the picture of domestication, yet there was something eerie about it, as if it wasn't practiced often. The box was still sealed for a reason. "I'm glad you feel at home. Can you believe that people are actually afraid of me, even intimidated? I don't really understand that."

Bernard watched as his host continue to fumble through the motions, unaware, perhaps, that he was being watched so closely, or perhaps very much so. "You have a nice house," he said.

"It will certainly make due," Benjamin said. "At least until I can afford something nice."

Bernard couldn't help but laugh. The charm was real.

"It's an old joke," Benjamin said. "I appreciate your laughing at it."

"I laugh at funny things," Bernard said. "Let me help you with that."

Benjamin did not look like he immediately appreciated it, but he stepped back and let Bernard reach for the kettle for him. It had been a strain. When did that become a strain? His hair had fallen out of place. He struggled to right it before Bernard noticed.

"Thank you," he said as his guest filled the kettle with water and placed it on the burner.

"It was my pleasure," Bernard said, betraying nothing. Of course he'd noticed.

"Would you like anything else?" Benjamin asked, opening other cupboards, not knowing what he was looking for, but expecting such a search would inspire confidence all the same. "If you want caviar, I could get you that, too."

"No, that's okay, really," Bernard insisted. "I don't need anything else. The tea is fine. I usually drink it alone anyway."

"Okay," Benjamin said. He knew then that Bernard was not going to leave his mansion alive. It made things easier. He was no longer nervous. "Tea by itself. You know, I could regale you with my knowledge of tea leaves right now. It would make for a fascinating afternoon, but I have the feeling you don't want that either. We're going to boil this water and then you can have your tea, and then you can go."

"I've made you uncomfortable," Bernard realized. He usually drank his tea with his morning bagel, poppy, and the tea yin zhen.

"Oh, no," Benjamin protested. "Not at all. I just have a lot on my mind. I'm a busy man, that's all. I was mistaken. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable. But you haven't made me feel uncomfortable. Don't be absurd!"

The water continued to boil, and when it was ready, everything went as Benjamin had outlined, until the end. Bernard should have paid more attention to his cup. But fine details seemed to escape too many people. It was distressing, more than anything else, and disappointing. So much work for him to do, Benjamin concluded. That's all it meant, just more for him to do. He had his influence, and his interests, and most of the time they helpfully dove-tailed. If any of the choir asked about Bernard, he would say that Bernard had decided to take another position within the empire. They already knew who Benjamin was. They would accept this, and they would continue to come, continue to sing "Idumea" for him. What other choice did they have? None, that he could see. But then, he only saw what he wanted to, or what he imagined. And he could imagine quite a lot. He could imagine a giant web being woven around him. He needed to take out the shears.

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