David Miller

Spiritual Letters (Series 5, #4)

A small distance from the temple ruins we sat for a while and ate figs from a tree. By day or in early evening, children run amongst the jets of water, squealing, splashing, laughing; later, the fountain’s still, the children gone. He changed the design for the labyrinth from a square to a circle and finally to a triangle, the greater part… to be built underground. Despite the late hour, a few figures could be seen in the elevator capsules, gliding up and down the side of the grandiose building, lit by blue neon. An empty can rattling along the road in a gust of wind. During the long wait for blood samples to be taken, I was curious about the other patients, but only making brief eye contact with anyone. Afterwards I decided to sit and read for a while over coffee – even if the poems happened to be about going blind or dying. I am overcome with amazement when I hear a voice speaking in the wood, a hand raised to strike, the body bending over, raising itself, sitting down…. A wooden image of the goddess, removed, now lost; miniature statues of young girls and boys, her devotees, arranged in rows. They talked and talked about the problem of painting a white egg on a white tablecloth. Votive offerings, retrieved from the spring: dolls, toys, jewellery boxes, mirrors. To build the Christian basilica, they uncovered and carried off material from the ancient sanctuary, damaged by floods, across the valley. You described it for me: a miniature house, made of iron, placed on the bare floorboards. A tiny iron chair, also mere inches tall, nearby. No stained glass, no Agony in the Garden or Last Judgement: just seven windows divided into small clear panes. On the ceiling, gold flowers arranged in straight lines and circles, and gold rectangles. He got out of bed in the night, feeling ill, and fell on the stairs and lay there helplessly, with no one in earshot, and died. We wandered through the snow in the cemetery until we found the old Cabbalist’s grave, surrounded by broken glass. Later that afternoon, in another cemetery, we saw the graves of writers and artists, snow falling faster, heavier. Darkened windows, candle-light and battery torches, sirens and the army on every corner…. – Where did you think your friends had disappeared to, he asked, when they never called or answered your calls again? The woman still denied knowing about the deportations and deaths, angering him further. I saw a ladder of tremendous height made of bronze, reaching all the way to the heavens, but it was so narrow that only one person could climb up at a time. To the two sides were fastened all sorts of iron instruments, as swords, lances, hooks, and knives; so that if any one went up carelessly he was in great danger of having his flesh torn…. She dreamt that she was eating curds, and woke with a sweet taste still on her tongue. I at once told this to my brother, and we realized that we would have to suffer, and that from now on we would no longer have any hope in this life.