Chapter 5

 

 

 

I returned to Vic’s Books, driving parallel to the Detroit River most of the way. The blue-green water sparkled and lapped against the piers of Ambassador Bridge. It was a nice drive, which I should have found peaceful, but instead I traveled wrapped in melancholy thoughts. I arrived at the shop and entered as before, the small bell over the door announcing my presence. It was only a week since last I visited, but already the store seemed staler than before, mustier, as if the books were rotting dead things on the shelves of a crumbling mausoleum.

Strange, I thought, how your surroundings are interpreted to reflect your mood. When I entered last week, the store felt comfortable, reminding me of happy childhood memories, escaping from the world through imaginary portals created by the likes of Robert Louis Stevenson or H. Rider Haggard. Now the shop felt only dreary and old, a reminder of things that age and are shelved in obscurity.

I moved between the aisles of tomes and found Vic as before, sitting behind the counter and reading, a smoldering cigar stub planted between hardened lips.

“Charlie,” he said, placing a marker between the pages of his book. “Right on schedule.”

“If nothing else, I am a timely man.” I spoke in full confidence but knew that if Gail were there, she’d laugh in my face.

“Timely and intriguing,” Vic replied. He brought up the pillowcase of records and set them on the counter.

I was going to ask what he meant, but Vic just waggled an accusatory finger at my chest. He exhaled a ring of blue-gray fumes then stubbed out the cigar in a ceramic dish. “I got a friend to listen to your records. The language is Russian... mostly. My friend wants to know what kind of a gag this is, though.”

I shook my head. “No gag, unless it was pulled off by whoever made the records.”

“No backwards words or dubbed voices?”

I shook my head again.

“Subliminal messages like that Elvis-kid plays in his music to make all the girls turn goo-goo for him?”

His questions began to irk me, as if this were a setup and the real gag was being played on me. “Not that I know of, Vic. If I knew what the records were saying, I wouldn’t have bothered you in the first place.”

“My friend’s name is Yefim László. He works with the Eastern Orthodox antiquities market. He says these are records of the dead.”

“Records of the dead?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

“There are sacred hymns that are chanted and, if performed correctly, lead one’s soul to remain intact in another realm after the body fails. It’s a sort of spiritual transcendence, or a method of immortality.” Vic paused and steepled his fingers under his chin. “The interesting thing about this legend is that it dates back to the Indus Valley People of ancient Pakistan. You ever heard of them?”

“No…”

“They were a civilization of about twenty million people that vanished a few thousand years ago.”

“How could twenty million people vanish?”

“That’s the mystery ain’t it?”

I clenched my teeth. Vic could be a little infuriating sometimes.

He continued. “Of course, that was way before there were devices to record sound. You know the expression that photography is a means of immortality?”

“Sure, it’s a way to be remembered forever.”

“Consider the philosophy of that statement. At its core, the idea holds true for any medium that records an image or a thought: paintings on cave walls, sculptures from stone, ink on papyrus. Those were visual recordings. Then Thomas Edison came along and invented the record player. The legend moved forward along with the advancement of technology. The hymns could be recorded, so their incantation—their essence—lasts forever.”

Goosebumps prickled the flesh on my arms as I thought back, listening to the words spoken by people that were long-dead yet still hanging around. “Why did your friend think this was a gag?”

“He’s from Moscow and has a passing familiarity with most of the Baltic languages. The dialect of Russian spoken on these records is old, but there are other languages, voices, he’s never heard. Yefim described them as speech patterns like ancient Latin but spoken backwards and guttural, as if recited through a mouth filled with mud.”

Vic looked at me, reading for an expression. I didn’t know what to say so forced out something, feeling obligated to reciprocate his remarks. “You don’t say.”

“Charlie,” Vic said and leaned in close. “My friend says these records are cursed. They’re like reading a demon’s diary, they make you sick if you listen. They don’t play like normal records. You noticed that already. And Yefim…he says they don’t end.”

I felt my guts sink to my knees. I thought back to when I listened to the albums, how they went on indefinitely, how I tired of listening and turned them off, though I never tried to listen all the way until it stopped. The air in Vic’s store felt muggier, thicker, and I rubbed at the back of my neck, as if some presence breathed on me from behind. I was about to thank Vic for helping me out, make a quick exiting remark, and then get outside for some fresh air. But he continued.

“One more thing,” he said.

“There’s more?”

“You want me to quit now, or you want to hear the rest of what’s on these records?”

“I’m still here, ain’t I?”

“Not long ago there lived a Russian mystic who was said to have learned how to pass between the realms of the living and the dead. Maybe he did it through the hymns of the Indus Valley People or maybe not, but he believed that true salvation came from within, that the spirit of God lived in the heart, not in heaven above. The soul must be conditioned for the afterlife, or it would wither into nothingness like a flower, whose roots can’t find perch in the soil.

“That man was Grigori Rasputin, the Mad Monk. These were his records.”

I felt that presence on the back of my neck suddenly burn, like a bull’s snort, and I needed to sit. My first thought was that I wanted Vic to keep the records, I didn’t want to ever touch them again. But my next thought—the avarice within—wondered as to their value.

Vic seemed to read my mind. “I don’t know of any self-respecting establishment that would want these in their possession.” He ran his hand over the bundle. “Of course, this is Detroit, so not many places here respect themselves that much. I could probably put you in contact with a couple collectors of dark artifacts. Maybe get fifty bucks for each disc.”

“Sure, thanks, Vic. Like I said before, these don’t belong to me. I’m just doing a buddy a favor, asking on his behalf. But I know there ain’t much he won’t put a price tag on, so I’m sure he’ll be interested.”

“Yefim said he doesn’t ever want to see or hear these records again, and he was pretty insistent I stress that you follow his sentiment. In other words, I’ll cross his name off the list of possible buyers.” Vic winked at his own joke.

“Thanks again.”

“Nothing of it. Your thanks are reflected by your patronage.” He extended his arms out to the shelves. “I’m sure you’ll find something of interest.”

I wasn’t much in the reading mood, but I thought I could pick up a gift for Gail, maybe a fiction novel by Valerie Taylor or Faith Baldwin. Gail loved to bury herself in the risqué pulps late at night while we lay in bed. I started to turn away, to skim the shelves for her, when something clicked in my thoughts.

I needed to know more…

“Say, Vic, you got any books on Rasputin?”