Angelology(75)

fertility upon the animals, the soil, and the women. The crops had sun and rain; the animals found

sufficient food; the women did not die in childbirth. Everything grew. Nothing perished. The world

began again.

“The sons of Noah claimed everything that they saw as their own. They became patriarchs, each

founding a race of humanity. They migrated to far-off regions of the planet, establishing dynasties that

we recognize even today as distinct. Shem, Noah’s oldest son, traveled to the Middle East, founding

the Semitic tribe; Ham, Noah’s second son, moved below the equator, into Africa, forming the

Hamitic tribe; and Japheth—or rather, the creature disguised as Japheth—took over the area between

the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, founding what would one day be called Europe. Japheth’s

progeny have plagued us ever since. As Europeans, we must contemplate our relation to our ancestral

origins. Are we free of such devilish associations? Or are we in some way connected to the children

of Japheth?”

Dr. Raphael’s lecture ended abruptly. He stopped speaking, closed his notebook, and urged us to

return to his next lecture. I knew from experience that Dr. Raphael halted his lectures in this manner

on purpose, leaving his students expecting more. It was a pedagogical tool that I came to respect after

having attended his lectures as a first-year student—I had not missed one of them. The rustling of

papers and the shuffling of feet filled the room as students gathered in groups, preparing for dinner or

evening study. Like the others, I collected my belongings. Dr. Raphael’s tale had left me in something

of a trance, and I found it particularly difficult to come to my senses in a group of people, many of

whom were complete strangers to me. Gabriella’s familiar presence at my side was comforting. I

turned to ask her if she would like to walk to our apartment to prepare dinner.

Once I saw her, however, I stopped cold. Gabriella’s appearance had changed. Her hair was

matted with sweat, her skin pallid and clammy. The thick black kohl she wore about her eyes—a

flourish of cosmetics that I had come to think of as Gabriella’s morbid trademark—had smeared even

farther below her eyes, whether from perspiration or tears, I could not say. Her large green eyes

gazed ahead but appeared to see nothing at all. Her disposition gave her a most frightening

appearance, as if she were in the grip of tubercular devastation. It was then that I noticed the bloodied

burns that had eaten the flesh of her forearm and the lovely golden lighter clutched in her hand. I tried

to speak, to ask her for an explanation for such strange behavior, but a look from Gabriella stopped

me before I could speak. In her eyes I saw a strength and determination that I myself did not possess. I

knew that she would remain inscrutable. Whatever dark and terrible secrets she held would never be

opened to me. For some reason, although I could not understand why, this knowledge both comforted

and horrified me at once.

Later, when I returned to our apartment, Gabriella sat in the kitchen. A pair of scissors and some

white bandages lay on the table before her. Seeing that she might need my assistance, I went to her. In

the sunny atmosphere of our apartment, the burn took on a ghastly color—her flesh had been

blackened by the flame and oozed a clear substance. I measured out a length of bandage.

Gabriella said, “Thank you, but I can take care of myself.”

My frustration grew as she took the bandage from me and proceeded to dress the wound. I watched

her for a moment, then said, “How could you do such a thing? What is wrong with you?”

She smiled as if I had said something that amused her. Indeed, I thought for a moment she might

laugh at me. But she simply returned to dressing her arm and said, “You wouldn’t understand,

Celestine. You are too good, too pure, to understand what is wrong with me.”

In the days that followed, the more I tried to understand the mystery of Gabriella’s actions, the more

secretive she became. She began to spend her nights away from our shared apartment on the rue

Gassendi, leaving me to wonder at her whereabouts and her safety. She returned to our quarters only

when I myself was away, and I detected her comings and goings by the clothes she left behind or

removed from her closet. I would step through the apartment and find a drinking glass, its rim

imprinted with a smudge of red lipstick; a strand of black hair; the scent of Shalimar lingering upon

her clothing; and I understood that Gabriella was avoiding me. It was only during the daytime, when

we worked together in the Athenaeum, boxes of notebooks and papers spread before us, that I was in

the company of my friend, but even then it was as if I weren’t there at all.