“Murder of the self is still murder,” Rachel said. “And it’s still a sin, even if Mr. Nietzsche did approve of it.”
“How did Nietzsche get into this?” Grelich asked.
“Nathan was always quoting him. And Camus.”
“Aha!” Grelich said. “He must have been quoting the Camus who says that whether or not to suicide is the only real question.”
“That must have been the one,” Rachel said.
“And he talked about an old Greek. Sissy-something?”
“Sisyphus?” Grelich guessed.
“This Nathan sounds like a man after my own heart,” Grelich said.
“Do you really think so, Mr. Castleman?” Rachel asked, her disapproving attitude evident.
“This is Grelich speaking,” Grelich said. “I’m here, too, due to your boyfriends’ change of heart or failure of nerve or whatever it was.”
“This is so bewildering,” Rachel said. “You’re the one with the deeper voice?”
“Yes, and the imaginary payes. Never mind. What else did Nathan talk about?”
“I scarcely know... One time he talked about the moneychangers in the temple. I think he was referring to Mr. Mayer. Anyhow, he didn’t approve.”
“Money changers have to earn a living, too,” Grelich said.
“Let’s not get off the subject,” Ritchie said. “Rachel, why do you think you’re responsible?”
“I encouraged Nathan to follow his conscience. I told him that was the truest voice of God within him. I think I had some influence over him. But believe me, I never dreamed he would take matters into his own hands—if that’s what he did.”
“Do you know where we can find Nathan Cohen?” Ritchie asked.
Rachel opened her purse and took out a slip of paper. “Here is his address, and his rabbi’s address. That’s all I know, all I can do for you. Oh, one thing more. Nathan is very fond of chess. He took me to a chess club once. I don’t remember where it was. Midtown? Downtown? It was very nice.”
Nathan wasn’t at the Marshall, but they found him at the Manhattan Chess Club on West 9th Street in Greenwich Village. The director pointed him out—he was the tall, skinny, pale, dark-haired young man hunched behind a Nimzoindian defense on board 1. The Hungarian grandmaster, Emil Bobul, was playing white. Bobul had dropped in for a casual game, but it had become a hard-fought contest. Nathan was bent over the board, one hand propping his jaw, the other hand touching the chess clock.
After a while Nathan looked up, recognized Grelich, thought for a minute, pursed his lips, shook his head and leaned over and whispered something to Bobul. Bobul shook his head. Nathan murmured something else. Bobul shrugged. Nathan turned down his king, got up, and walked over to Grelich.
“Mr. Grelich,” he said, “I believe I owe you an explanation.”
“If you would be so kind,” Grelich said.
Over coffee in a nearby coffee shop, Nathan tried to explain why he had aborted the operation.
“I knew I shouldn’t do anything to screw this up,” Nathan said, referring to the transfer operation. “Suicide and body-transfer are legal, you don’t fool around with government-sanctioned procedures. I transferred Mr. Castleman without moral difficulty. If Grelich wanted to share his body with Castleman, it was no skin off my nose. But when it came time to turn Grelich off—to shatter his electro-chemical connections—assign him to death—well, I hesitated. My hesitation turned into a long delay. And finally I just walked out of there. I reminded myself that I took this job to turn the dials and press the buttons. But now it was getting too personal. They want me to play executioner. Consciously, that is. That was too much. I got out of there.”
It was after eleven at night when Grelich and Ritchie got back to Ritchie’s apartment. They stopped for dinner first at an Irish bar nearby. Despite Grelich’s vegetarianism, he made no objection when Ritchie ordered a corned beef sandwich, home fries, a small green salad, and a pint of Killian’s Red.
“I hope you don’t object to this,” Ritchie said, gesturing with his sandwich.
“Why should I object? I sold you my body. If you want to fill it with treif junk food, that’s your business.”
“Another beer?”
“Suit yourself.”
Ritchie didn’t order another. He was afraid he’d be going to the bathroom all right. He had been wondering about how the night would go. Last night had been easy, he’d been exhausted. But tonight? It was like the first time. He felt uncomfortable, having to sleep with Grelich, even though there was just one body involved. Would he be able to sleep at all? Last night he had been exhausted and in shock. But tonight? He hoped the body would sleep when it was ready.
But whose body was it? Did this body even know which mind it belonged to? Had the body itself—neither Castleman nor Grelich, but a representative of the body only—had this body witnessed the change of title?
At the apartment, Grelich took a shower, then found a set of Ritchie’s pajamas, and undressed and put them on. Without discussing it with Ritchie, he lay down on the bed, turned off the bedside lamp, tucked his arm under the pillow, and fell asleep.
Ritchie lay there, uncomfortable, wide-awake, watching lights and shadows cross the ceiling from cars in the street far below.
He tried to resign himself to a sleepless night. He watched the play of light and shadow across the ceiling—a weaving, hypnotic pattern. He felt miserable that he didn’t have a body of his own, so that he could get up, fix himself a sandwich, watch some television, or play a game on his computer. Instead, with Grelich in control of the body, he had to lie here maybe all night watching the lights on the ceiling. He couldn’t even get up and fix himself a drink. He’d have to talk to Grelich about that, if this situation went on much longer. Which he fervently hoped it would not... How could he sleep in an unfamiliar body, sharing his headspace with a man he scarcely knew? Given the circumstances, anyone would have insomnia. So thinking, he fell asleep.
He began to dream. In his dream he was walking down a long dark corridor toward a closed door with light coming from under it.
The door swung open. Ritchie walked in.
He was in a small, dark room. The ceiling slanted down. It seemed to be an attic room. In front of him was a plain wooden table. On it was a lighted candle in a pewter holder.
Behind the table, at the end of the room, he could see a tall window. It had no shade or curtain, and through the glass Ritchie could see the darkness of a city night, a darker shade than the darkness in the room.
Now he made out the middle distance. There were two men seated behind the table facing him. The one to his right, near the end of the table, wore dark, shapeless clothes, and had a yarmulke on his head. He was old, with a skinny, stubbly face. He had wire spectacles pushed up on his forehead. There was a parchment on the table in front of him, and he had a steel-nibbed pen in his right hand.