along the photograph of Kybele, pausing at the lions at her feet. “The religion of the Mother Goddess is the oldest religion in the world.”
The words and music of a song began roiling through Tamar’s head while he spoke.
Give me that old-time religion,
Give me that old-time religion.
It’s good enough for me.
“Not all ancient religions believed in a Mother Goddess,” Mustafa said. “Fertility comes from the male.” He rumbled on. “Some people are the descendants of Adam alone. They know that life comes from Adam, the father of us all.”
Orman gave him a disapproving look sharp enough to wither the virility of a bull.
In the silence that followed, Tamar thought of Artemis with her bloody apron, of Mary in her house on the hill, of the grossly exaggerated genitals of Priapos in the museum halls, and the song kept buzzing through her head.
It was good enough for mother,
It was good enough for father,
And it’s good enough for me.
Chapter Seven
Sofia, Bulgaria, August 7, 1990
Chatham felt a twinge of apprehension at the sight of the man from the train. His bulk filled the doorway. His stance held an unspoken threat.
How did he get to Sofia so quickly? Did he stay on the train?
“Professor Chatham?” the man said in a low, rumbling voice. He had bulging eyes and a jutting chin.
“You’re Konstantinov?” The man nodded. “Irena’s brother?”
He looked at the roses. “You come to see my sister?” He opened the door wider and stood back.
Chatham stood awkwardly in the hall, his suitcase in his hand, the flowers held in front of him like a buffer. He blustered with courage he didn’t feel and tightened his grip on the bouquet of roses.
“Where is Irena? She disappeared from the train.”
The man stood aside. Behind him was a long whitewashed passageway trimmed with dark wood. A door opened at the far end. Irena drifted through and sailed toward Chatham, her arms spread out to greet him.
For a moment, Chatham felt a tic of anxiety. Then, watching her glide down the hall with her sweet smile of welcome, he was reassured.
He held out the bouquet.
“Come in, come in,” Irena said. “My brother Dimitar and I expected you.”
With a deft motion she maneuvered him into the apartment and closed the door behind him.
He put down his bag and once more offered the flowers. “You knew I was coming?”
“I saw a spider spin his web in the window. In Bulgaria, that’s always a sign of a visitor. And when I set the table, I laid out an extra place by mistake. That too is a sign.”
“You got off the train. How did you get here before me?”
“My brother met me with a car in Plovdiv. I didn’t tell you?” Her hand was on his arm now. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to see you again.”
She reached for the flowers, brushed them lightly against her cheek, and buried her perfect nose next to a rose. He wanted to say, “You are so beautiful, even roses blush when they see you.” The words would have sounded insincere and sophomoric, so he said nothing. Instead, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“An even number of flowers is for a funeral,” she said and pulled one rose out of the bouquet. She snapped the stem to shorten it, and moving closer, inserted the rose into the buttonhole of his lapel. “There now,” she said and patted his chest. “Of course you will stay for dinner?”
Irena led him to a fairly large room at the end of the corridor furnished with a dingy rug, a table with four ladder-back chairs and a lumpy sofa that looked like it doubled as a bed.
The table was set for three, Chatham noticed. She really did expect him.
Irena told her brother she must go to the pazara , the market, to buy food for dinner, and Dimitar reached into his pocket and took out a few leva. Chatham recalled Irena’s conversation on the train, her resigned admission of their poverty. Her hospitality might cost them a meal later.
“Allow me,” he said and held out twenty leva with a
The words and music of a song began roiling through Tamar’s head while he spoke.
Give me that old-time religion,
Give me that old-time religion.
It’s good enough for me.
“Not all ancient religions believed in a Mother Goddess,” Mustafa said. “Fertility comes from the male.” He rumbled on. “Some people are the descendants of Adam alone. They know that life comes from Adam, the father of us all.”
Orman gave him a disapproving look sharp enough to wither the virility of a bull.
In the silence that followed, Tamar thought of Artemis with her bloody apron, of Mary in her house on the hill, of the grossly exaggerated genitals of Priapos in the museum halls, and the song kept buzzing through her head.
It was good enough for mother,
It was good enough for father,
And it’s good enough for me.
Chapter Seven
Sofia, Bulgaria, August 7, 1990
Chatham felt a twinge of apprehension at the sight of the man from the train. His bulk filled the doorway. His stance held an unspoken threat.
How did he get to Sofia so quickly? Did he stay on the train?
“Professor Chatham?” the man said in a low, rumbling voice. He had bulging eyes and a jutting chin.
“You’re Konstantinov?” The man nodded. “Irena’s brother?”
He looked at the roses. “You come to see my sister?” He opened the door wider and stood back.
Chatham stood awkwardly in the hall, his suitcase in his hand, the flowers held in front of him like a buffer. He blustered with courage he didn’t feel and tightened his grip on the bouquet of roses.
“Where is Irena? She disappeared from the train.”
The man stood aside. Behind him was a long whitewashed passageway trimmed with dark wood. A door opened at the far end. Irena drifted through and sailed toward Chatham, her arms spread out to greet him.
For a moment, Chatham felt a tic of anxiety. Then, watching her glide down the hall with her sweet smile of welcome, he was reassured.
He held out the bouquet.
“Come in, come in,” Irena said. “My brother Dimitar and I expected you.”
With a deft motion she maneuvered him into the apartment and closed the door behind him.
He put down his bag and once more offered the flowers. “You knew I was coming?”
“I saw a spider spin his web in the window. In Bulgaria, that’s always a sign of a visitor. And when I set the table, I laid out an extra place by mistake. That too is a sign.”
“You got off the train. How did you get here before me?”
“My brother met me with a car in Plovdiv. I didn’t tell you?” Her hand was on his arm now. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to see you again.”
She reached for the flowers, brushed them lightly against her cheek, and buried her perfect nose next to a rose. He wanted to say, “You are so beautiful, even roses blush when they see you.” The words would have sounded insincere and sophomoric, so he said nothing. Instead, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“An even number of flowers is for a funeral,” she said and pulled one rose out of the bouquet. She snapped the stem to shorten it, and moving closer, inserted the rose into the buttonhole of his lapel. “There now,” she said and patted his chest. “Of course you will stay for dinner?”
Irena led him to a fairly large room at the end of the corridor furnished with a dingy rug, a table with four ladder-back chairs and a lumpy sofa that looked like it doubled as a bed.
The table was set for three, Chatham noticed. She really did expect him.
Irena told her brother she must go to the pazara , the market, to buy food for dinner, and Dimitar reached into his pocket and took out a few leva. Chatham recalled Irena’s conversation on the train, her resigned admission of their poverty. Her hospitality might cost them a meal later.
“Allow me,” he said and held out twenty leva with a
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