I had projected from the not-so-distant past into the future present. The Palindrome is a day of power, not to go forth nor backward, but expand. The Meteor is a manifestation of this concept, which is more than a concept, an actual spiritually mathematical fact. I had to physically locate it or figure out the mental exercise that would lead me to it. The Palindrome loomed, with its own power- to magnify good; for like the robe of Christ, it was a dead object in the hands of evil.
We’re all searching for something. A short cut, a perfect sequence of numbers, but this search was puzzling. No map nor chart, nor a specific terrain. Where to begin? The kingdom of heaven is within, was the looping phrase, and its rolling clouds are peppered with such fragments. And everybody below is searching with their metal detectors, sonograms and sniffing dogs. All strange gems and metallic bodies are intriguing, but it is the Meteorite that those propelled toward knowledge keep searching for. Even Herzog was on such a quest, probing a vast store for the One- the meteorite with a capital M.
When I was a child, the lucky ones would find bits of it and add to their sacks of marbles to magnetize them, or rub them against little tin rings found in Cracker Jack boxes to be alchemized as gold, not to be worn, but hung on red string. The golden rings swaying above carousels that we once pulled to get a free second ride appeared to be such rings. I had forgotten all of this. I felt certain that the Meteor would somehow cosmically lead me to the portal I had to enter. There are so many portals, one could not possible fathom how many, no more than one could write out by hand the history of the prime number. Then of course there are the stars, billions of stars, each containing wishes that penetrate space as they explode.
I was so tired, at least my body was tired, but my mind was surrounded with a cool bright energy. Perhaps if I took a walk, I thought, the air would do me good. The elevator was sealed, so I took the stairs, descending what seemed forever, until I entered the brutalist lobby, lit in a dim but appealing amber light.
The Berlin night was also appealing. I wondered if the cemetery was open at such an hour, or if the train ran at night. It was more than night, actually, close to 4am. Now that I was out, I felt a bit foolish. No traffic, the radio tower, a beacon. It was snowing. A light wet snow that probably wouldn’t stick, but so pretty. Snow, even when a frightening vortex is always beautiful. But this was hardly menacing. I felt reenergized and walked in a while different direction. Up ahead there was a flickering neon sign. It took a long time to reach it, but I persevered. The sign was in French- something like the Geological Library Club. No ticket was required, so I entered. It had the air of failed expectations, of the refuse of a poorly attended teenage dance. A few slumped over at the bar, several empty bottles, loud unidentifiable music. Maybe German techno music. I imagined a double door beyond the bar, swinging doors like in an old-fashioned American saloon. I waited to be approached by someone but the scattered clientele seemed in a pre-dawn stupor. After after-hours, all the fun done.
The doors swung open, but no one exited. I entered with some hesitation. A small dark antechamber presenting four objects without explanation or invitation. I could make out four vertical display cases at different points in the room, arranged like small pillars, abstract yet logical. The ceiling was low and there was no overhead light nor switch, but the cases contained small filiment bulbs so it was possible to view each object at close proximity.
Recognizing the first object I truly gasped. It was a miniature pitcher, a small black perfectly wrought Greek pitcher. I had seen a photograph of it in a memorial pamphlet printed in 1927, after the death of Ryunosuke Akutagawa. It was one of his few precious belongings. How it came to be in this small dusty exhibit I could not imagine. I marveled that it had survived the burning of Edo at the end of World War II, so much history lost in the name of revenge. I longed to hold it and recalled in my mind’s eye the photograph of him sitting before four or five objects- a bowl, the pitcher, some figurines. So touchingly intent. In this rare monograph, that I treasure, a photograph of each object was reproduced on thin Japanese vellum, which I could not read, but I could read his expression. One full of wonder.
I could have looked at it forever. A long time since I was so singularly entranced. There was no question that it was his own. I had gazed at the image of it many times, drawn like a romantic poet to its Greek perfection. There were three other objects. The translucent skin slippers of a saint, perhaps Saint Celestine, the hermit who was imprisoned in a small cell for refusing to be Pope. I tried to disengage from the object of my present affection, when a muffled voice came over a loudspeaker, sounding as if stuffed with cotton. Hurry up please, it’s time. Hurry up please, it’s time. Familiar words? Yes. T.S. Eliot. But which work? Prufrock. The Wasteland. Ash Wednesday. Once I would have known immediately, but his poems seemed to liquify and pour from my mind.
Hurry, another voice called, all is the case.
Wittgenstein? The Secretary? I could see the third case receding and I wanted to race toward it but was paralyzed before the vase of Akutagawa, like T. S. Elliots patient, etherized upon a table.
End of Part I
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