The Ninth Circle Page 5

  In the end, I sat back down on the couch, picked up the book once again and carefully turned over the front cover. I suppose it must have been about 9 a.m. when I first opened the book. It was well past midnight before I glanced up to check the time. I haven’t eaten all day but even now I’m not hungry. I didn’t read the book because I enjoyed it but because the knowledge inside it fanned some forgotten flame within me, possessing me with the desire to read on and on well into the night as dust was blown from buried memories, stamping them once again in the forefront of my mind.

  So I’ve spent the entire day reacquainting myself with devils and the places they come from. It has been disturbing reading. The book refers to devils as ‘fallen angels’. I don’t like this. I really don’t like it at all. Demons and angels should be opposites. I hate to think that demons were once angels . . . that they ever had anything to do with Heaven. It seems blasphemous to me. But how can the idea be blasphemous when it is supported by the Bible itself?

  The book refers to Lucifer, before he was known as Satan, when he was still God’s most favoured and trusted angel . . . until the day he refused to bow down before Adam and, as a result, was hurled from Heaven down to the Hellish realms deep within the Earth’s core. Lucifer’s wounded pride and bitterness consumed and ate away at him until there was nothing good or angelic left.

  After Lucifer’s fall from grace, other angels rebelled against God and fled to Satan’s side. Even now, the battle between God’s angels and Satan’s devils continues, although most of it takes place at Hell’s border. According to the book, angels are still being seduced to Satan’s ranks and it’s the angels patrolling the borders of Hell who are most likely to fall prey to him, due to their regular close contact with demons.

  But it seems that this works both ways and the angels are sometimes able to win devils from the border over to their side as well. I find this idea utterly disgusting. Such intermingling should be absolutely forbidden. One being should not be able to flit between angel and demon in such a manner, forever crossing lines, becoming one then the other and back again. The very notion is deeply repugnant.

  Worse still is the idea that some devils, like Satan in the book of Job, have special ‘passes’ to occasionally visit Heaven for duels of wits with the angels. Duels of wits! The sacrilegious, blasphemous frivolity of it!

  There is one story in the book, concerning the demon Mephistopheles, that I find especially disturbing. Mephistopheles, or Mephisto, said to be the next angel after Lucifer to fall from grace, was made Satan’s second in command and became one of the seven Princes of Hell. The etymology of his name is unclear, but the most common meaning appears to be ‘he who destroys by lies’. While Lucifer’s rejection of God was born from pride and jealousy, it would seem that it was Mephistopheles’ passion for sardonic wit and sneering cynicism that caused him to turn from God to find more entertaining pastimes in the form of relentlessly pursuing human souls on Earth. What it came down to was that being an angel bored him. He was said to be the most adept at causing humans to stray from the divine path of righteousness into sin and damnation, for he was the cleverest and slyest of the devils and could tempt people in subtle and cunning ways.

  The story in question concerns Mephistopheles venturing into Heaven and making a bet with God regarding the scholar, Faust. The demon claimed that he would be able to tempt the scholar onto the path of sin if only he was allowed the chance; and God accepted the challenge, granting Mephistopheles permission to interfere in Faust’s life and insisting that, even in his darkest moments, Faust would not stray from the path of righteousness. But ultimately Faust did succumb to the wiles of Mephistopheles and, as the demon had predicted, the scholar ended his life with blood on his hands.

  There appears to be a broad consensus that Faust never wanted or imagined the horrors that came to befall him and those he cared about; that he did not instigate these disasters, and that they would never have occurred at all without the sly manipulation so cleverly exercised by Mephistopheles as the demon posed as the man’s friend.

  After reading of Mephistopheles and his corruption and seduction of Faust, I was so repulsed that I was going to put the book aside and get out of the apartment, which suddenly seemed heavy with claustrophobia. But then a name caught my eye. It was my own, the name of the archangel Gabriel; and just seeing it on the page, surrounded by the names of devils, demons and Princes of Hell, made me feel nervous and uncomfortable.

  As I read I remembered that there was a subclass of fallen angels known as the Watchers, who were sent to Earth to supervise the development of the human race but tried to give mankind secrets for which they were not yet ready. And then, worst of all, the Watchers fell in love with the daughters of men and procreated with them. A race of giants was produced that drained the Earth of its resources and cast a blight of famine and misery over the land. So God decided to destroy his creation by sending a great flood and starting anew . . .

  But there is something wrong with this, isn’t there? I mean, the people were praying to God because they were hungry, because they were starving . . . and he answered their prayers by drowning them all. I am sure that this cannot have been the help everyone had in mind when they kneeled down to pray . . . I’m sure our ancestors must have got this story very wrong indeed . . .

  Angels were sent to round up the Watchers and imprison them in the Third Circle of Hell, where they were told of God’s plan to obliterate all that they had helped create on Earth - but not until they had been forced to watch their children destroy each other. Gabriel was instructed to incite war between the giants so that they might all die vicious deaths at one another’s hands, before the great flood swept through the land destroying all else. The Watchers appealed to God for mercy on behalf of their children and themselves, but their pleas were coldly rejected, and Gabriel did as he’d been told and stirred up such venomous savagery in the giants that they tore each other apart in a brief and bloody war. And now the Watchers hate Gabriel for what he did. But, of course, I don’t believe a word of this - angels do not have sex with humans. And even if it did happen, there must have been a damn good reason for God’s furious response. He’s not evil - He wouldn’t kill people over love affairs. But the book frightens me, even if it is a pack of lies, so I have hidden it away under the floorboards with the money. I am going to pretend that it is not there. That I never even saw it.

  To reassure myself, I opened one of my other old books about archangels - one that portrayed them in a much more accurate light - describing their goodness and compassion and mercy to all of mankind, and their desire to save as many souls as they could. It was then that I made two discoveries. Like all my other books, this one was heavily annotated with highlighting, underlining, and the occasional note pencilled in the margin in my own slanting handwriting. Two angels in particular were covered in pencil marks. One, naturally, was Gabriel. Written in the margin in tiny script were the words: ‘Heroes’ Square, Budapest - Gabriel’s Millennium Monument.’ I’ve never been to Heroes’ Square but I intend to go there tomorrow to see the monument for myself.

  The second discovery I made was in the form of the second most heavily annotated archangel - Zadkiel, angel of memory, mercy and benevolence, and one of the two standard bearers who closely follows Michael into battle. I felt a horrible ache as I realised that here was a fourth thing I shared with Zadkiel Stephomi - we both shared names with angels. And we were both somehow linked to Michael, greatest of the archangels and God’s most trusted servant. It had been his church beside which we had met that day. I think I must have some kind of special connection with angels. My name is Gabriel. Everyone knows that that is an angelic name. I saved a woman who stupidly ran off into a back street alley at night . . . Oh, yes, and I’ve also saved children’s pets that would otherwise have killed each other. In some ways, I am like an angel. I save people. I rescue them. I am here . . . to help people.

  16th September

  God is with me. T
ruly He must favour me, for once again angels have led me to the most extraordinary good fortune. It’s very late but I’m not tired at all. I was reacquainted with Zadkiel Stephomi today. What are the chances? Really, what are the odds of chance meetings happening twice like that?

  I wrote before of my intention to visit Heroes’ Square and the Millennium Monument, with which Gabriel had been linked in my own notes in the margin of one of my books. When I got up this morning, the weather was so miserable outside that I was tempted not to go out at all. The sky was choked with heavy, forbidding storm clouds, and rain was rocketing into the windows, shaking them in their frames as a vicious chill crept in through the floorboards and the cracks in the doors. I thought about turning the heating up and crawling back under the covers of my bed, since I had no responsibilities to co-workers, employers, friends or relatives to draw me from my dry apartment into the thundering gale outside.

  But the silence of this shabby, grotty little hovel depresses me. So I took the metro to Heroes’ Square, huddled in the small carriages with other wet, disgruntled passengers who pushed and shoved at each other. Despite the rain, I longed to get out of the station with its damp, fetid smell of old rainwater and rotting leaves that had been blown in by the wind. But at the foot of the steps leading outside, I hesitated, realising for the first time that I hadn’t brought an umbrella with me.

  I briefly considered turning back to my apartment. But the book of demons from the night before was still unsettling me. Especially what it said Gabriel had done . . . Not that I believed it for a moment, of course. But I still couldn’t throw off the vaguely worrying feeling that had descended on me since the night before. If I could only see Gabriel in association with something good, I felt that these fears would be allayed. The Millennium Celebrations of 1896 opened in Heroes’ Square and marked a high point in the development of Budapest. I wanted to see Gabriel associated with such a time of progress and hope, in order to dispel the bitter taste in my mouth that had been there since reading the book.

  So I trudged up the stairs and out into the rain, not sure how far I’d have to go before I came across the Square. But as soon as I got to the top of the steps, I stopped and stared. Hösök Tere Metro Station is only just across the road from Heroes’ Square, and I could see even from there what an incredible sight the Millennium Monument was. I crossed the road, dodging cars to reach it. The place was deserted - not surprising as the rain had reached torrential levels, and water was inches deep in some places on the stone pavestones, reaching up to my ankles and soaking straight through my shoes and socks. Thunder rumbled dully in the distance as I walked closer to the monument. And as I stood there staring up at it, with icy rain running down my neck and dripping from my hair and the ends of my fingers, I was immensely grateful that I had, after all, ventured from my apartment on this foul-weathered day.

  The monument consisted of a towering central column, with two colonnades curving round behind it. I hardly noticed War and Peace in their huge stone chariots, or the Hungarian heroes, leaders, statesmen and monarchs stood within the colonnades beneath, for the crowning glory of it all was the grand 120-feet-high Corinthian column at the centre, upon which Gabriel stood holding St Istvàn’s crown in one hand and the apostolic cross in the other, great feathered wings spread behind him. I could feel all my unease and bad feeling from the night before melting away, to be replaced with this calm, deeply spiritual peace, even as rain cascaded down to the ground around me and storm clouds gathered in the sky overhead. It was almost as if the angel was talking to me. He knew that I was there, somehow; I was sure of it. He recognised me even if no one else did.

  Water ran down my neck, soaking my shirt beneath my coat as I gazed up at the stone angel, surrounded by statues of Hungarian heroes instead of devils; presiding over an era of progress and advancement rather than bloody, violent war. It was so big; somehow I hadn’t been expecting the monument to tower over me like that. Gabriel himself must have been visible for miles around. Rain dripped from the great hooves and rolling eyes of the huge stone horses at the base of the column and the heroes all gazed down at me with expressions of grim nobility and an almost pained pride . . .

  ‘Happy looking bunch, aren’t they?’ a familiar voice remarked behind me, somehow clearly audible over the roar of the approaching storm. ‘It’s a serious business, heroism.’

  I turned round sharply, wrenching my neck painfully, to face the man standing mere paces behind me; and then my mouth fell open, amazed at my good luck. ‘Stephomi?’

  ‘Hello, Gabriel,’ he replied. ‘Come to visit someone?’ He nodded towards the angelic statue. ‘I must say, you picked a fine day for it.’

  ‘I—’ I broke off for a moment, turned away from the monument and took a step closer towards him. I had to resist the urge to grab him in case he should slip through my fingers once again. ‘I lost your number,’ I said at last. ‘That’s why I didn’t—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Stephomi interrupted, with a wave of his hand. ‘I see I’m not the only one stupid enough to come out in this weather without an umbrella. I wanted to see the monument too, but . . . Well, to hell with culture when it’s pissing it down like this. Do you want to go and have a drink somewhere?’

  And that was how I met him again. Who would have believed it? We left the heroes to the rain and found a small sörözös just a short walk away from Heroes’ Square. It was unusually busy, full of others who had ducked in to avoid the bad weather, but luckily there were still some free tables at the back near the crackling fires. There were also warm, orange lamps giving the place a cheerful glow, and people talking animatedly over their drinks around us as barmaids edged through the throng with trays of beer balanced on the flats of their palms.

  We each ordered a pint of barna and, as we had missed lunch, a dish of smoked knuckles as well as an order of pogácsa, made delicious with crackling, cheese and paprika. And then we talked, thankfully about neutral topics that I did not have to lie about. He almost seemed to be going out of his way not to ask me any personal questions this time, and I was grateful for that. Instead he seemed quite content to talk about himself, and I was more than happy to listen.

  The time went quickly; in fact, I was amazed at just how fast the afternoon disappeared. Time moves much slower when I am here in my apartment by myself. At last, Stephomi glanced at his watch and my heart sank as he pointed out how late it was.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gabriel, we’ve been here for hours and I’ve hardly asked you anything about yourself. It’s one of the unspoken requirements of being a teacher, you know - you have to love the sound of your own voice. Why don’t we move on to a restaurant and you can do the talking this time?’

  I hesitated, pushing down that familiar panic. I didn’t want to do the talking. I didn’t know enough about myself to be capable of talking for any great length of time. My name is Gabriel ... ? I mean, how long does that take to say? And he knew anyway, I had already told him so more than once. It occurred to me that perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to quit now while I was ahead.

  ‘Er . . . I’m not sure that I—’ I began.

  ‘Please, I insist. It’ll be my treat.’

  The rush of panic increased. What if he asked me something I couldn’t answer? What if he asked me where I’d grown up or how many siblings I had or something? What if I panicked and ran away again? Get a grip . . . get a grip . . .

  ‘It’s the fish!’ I blurted out.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Stephomi asked, looking taken aback.

  ‘Er . . . I’m supposed to be looking after someone’s fish,’ I mumbled, my hand automatically going to the fish food in my pocket. ‘I don’t mind, though!’ I added hurriedly. What was I doing? Urghh, why was I talking to him like this?

  ‘Someone else’s fish?’ Stephomi asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘Yes! They’re not mine. I just . . . it’s just a favour . . . until they get back from holiday—’

  ‘Gabriel,’ Stepho
mi said, mercifully cutting me off in mid-flow before any more damage could be done. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way but sod the bloody fish. You can go and see them tomorrow; I’m sure they won’t starve overnight. And I can assure you that my conversation is much more stimulating than that of any fish . . .’ He paused. ‘Although, depending on how much I might have to drink, I can’t make any promises.’

  I laughed. All at once the panic disappeared. The fish were important but, right now, Stephomi was more important. If he asked me any awkward questions, I would just say that I’d rather not talk about my past. Problem solved.

  Outside we found that it was no longer raining, although the sun was beginning to set. We walked back past the monument and a little way down Állatkerti Street until we came to Gundels, the most famous restaurant in Hungary. Stephomi was shocked I’d never eaten there before although I had, of course, heard of it. It was housed in a large old building with panelled white ceilings, old paintings on the walls and polished walnut pillars standing throughout the spacious room. A pianist was playing over in one corner, and soft lighting gleamed off the rich pillars and the elegant old crockery on the tables.