"An eagle ate his liver," Kirsten said remotely.
Nodding, Tim said, "Zeus punished Prometheus by chaining him and sending an eagle to eat his liver, which regenerated itself endlessly. However, Hercules released him. Prometheus was a friend to mankind beyond any doubt. He was a master craftsman. There is an affinity to the legend of Satan, certainly. As I see it, Satan could be said to have stolen-not fire-but true knowledge of God. However, he did not bring it to man, as Prometheus did with fire. Perhaps Satan's real sin was that upon acquiring that knowledge he kept it to himself; he did not share it with mankind. That's interesting ... by that line of reasoning, one could argue that we could acquire a knowledge of God by way of Satan. I've never heard that theory put forth before." He became silent, apparently pondering. "Would you write this down?" he said to Kirsten.
"I'll remember." Her tone was listless and drab.
"Man must assault Satan and seize this knowledge," Tim said, "and take it from him. Satan does not want to yield it up. For concealing it-not for taking it in the first place-he was punished. Then, in a sense, human beings can redeem Satan by wresting this knowledge from him."
I said, "And then go off and study astrology."
Glancing at me, Tim said, "Pardon?"
"Wallenstein," I said. "Off casting horoscopes."
"The Greek words which our word 'horoscope' is based on," Tim said, "are hora, which means 'hour,' and scopos, which means 'one who watches.' So 'horoscope' literally means 'one who watches the hours.' " He lit a cigarette; both he and Kirsten, since their return from England, seemed to smoke constantly. "Wallenstein was a fascinating person."
"So Jeff says," I said. "Said, I mean."
Cocking his head alertly, Tim said, "Was Jeff interested in Wallenstein? Because I have-"
"You didn't know?" I said.
Looking puzzled, Tim said, "I don't think so."
Kirsten regarded him steadily, with an inscrutable expression.
"I have a number of very good books on Wallenstein," Tim said. "You know, in many ways Wallenstein resembled Hitler."
Both Kirsten and I remained silent.
"Wallenstein contributed to the ruin of Germany," Tim said. "He was a great general. Friedrich von Schiller, as you may know, wrote three plays about Wallenstein, whose titles are: Wallenstein's Camp, The Piccolominis and The Death of Wallenstein. They are profoundly moving plays. This brings up, of course, the role of Schiller himself in the development of Western thought. Let me read you something." Setting his cigarette down, Tim went over to the bookcase for a book; he found it after a few minutes of hunting. "This may shed some light on the subject. In writing to his friend-let me see; I have the name here- in writing to Wilhelm von Humboldt, this was toward the very end of Schiller's life, Schiller said, 'After all, we are both idealists, and should be ashamed to have it said that the material world formed us, instead of being formed by us.' The essence of Schiller's vision was, of course, freedom. He was naturally absorbed in the great drama of the revolt of the Lowlands- by that I mean Holland-and-" Tim paused, thinking, his lips moving; he gazed absently off into space. On the couch, Kirsten sat in silence, smoking and staring. "Well," Tim said finally, leafing through the book he held, "let me read you this. Schiller wrote this when he was thirty-four years old. Perhaps it sums up much of our aspirations, our most noble ones." Peering at the book, Tim read aloud. "'Now that I have begun to know and to employ my spiritual powers properly, an illness unfortunately threatens to undermine my physical ones. However, I shall do what I can, and when in the end the edifice comes crashing down, I shall have salvaged what was worth preserving.' " Tim shut the book and returned it to the shelf.
We said nothing. I did not even think; I merely sat.
"Schiller is very important to the twentieth century," Tim said; he returned to his cigarette, stubbed it out. For a long time, he stared down at the ashtray.
"I'm going to send out for a pizza," Kirsten said. "I'm not up to fixing dinner."
"That's fine," Tim said. "Ask them to put Canadian bacon on it. And if they have soft drinks-"
"I can fix dinner," I said.
Kirsten rose, made her way to the phone, leaving Tim and me alone together.
Earnestly, Tim said to me, "It is really a matter of great importance to know God, to discern the Absolute Essence, which is the way Heidegger puts it. Sein is his term: Being. What we have uncovered at the Zadokite Wadi simply beggars description."
I nodded.
"How are you fixed for money?" Tim said, reaching into his coat pocket.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You're working, still? At the real estate-" He corrected himself. "You're a legal secretary; you're still with them, then?"
"Yes," I said. "But I'm just a clerk-typist."
"I found my career as a lawyer taxing," Tim said, "but rewarding. I'd advise you to become a legal secretary and then perhaps you can use that as a jumping-off platform and go into law, become an attorney. It might even be possible for you to be a judge, someday."
"I guess so," I said.
Tim said, "Did Jeff discuss the anokhi with you?"
"Well, you wrote to us. And we saw newspaper and magazine articles."
"They used the term in a special sense, a technical sense-the Zadokites. It could not have meant the Divine Intelligence because they speak of having it, literally. There is one line from Document Six: 'Anokhi dies and is reborn each year, and upon each following year anokhi is more.' Or greater; more or greater, it could be either, perhaps lofty. It's extremely puzzling but the translators are working on it and we hope to have it during the next six months ... and, of course, they're still piecing together the fragments, the scrolls that became mutilated. I have no knowledge of Aramaic, as you probably realize. I studied both Greek and Latin-you know, 'God is the final bulwark against non-Being.' "
"Tillich," I said.
"Beg pardon?" Tim said.
"Paul Tillich said that," I said.
"I'm not sure about that," Tim said. "It was certainly one of the Protestant existential theologians; it may have been Reinhold Niebuhr. You know, Niebuhr is an American, or rather was; he died quite recently. One thing that interests me about Niebuhr-" Tim paused a moment. "Niemoller served in the German navy in World War One. He worked actively against the Nazis and continued to preach until 1938. The Gestapo arrested him and he was sent to Dachau. Niebuhr had been a pacifist originally, but urged Christians to support the war against Hitler. I feel that one of the significant differences between Wallenstein and Hitler- actually it is a very great similarity-lies in the loyalty oaths that Wallenstein-"
"Excuse me," I said. I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet to see if the bottle of Dexamyls was still there. It was not; all the medicine bottles were gone. Taken to England, I realized. Now in Kirsten's and Tim's luggage. Fuck.
When I came out, I found Kirsten standing alone in the living room. "I'm terribly, terribly tired," she said in a faint voice.
"I can see that," I said.
"There is no way I am going to be able to keep down pizza. Could you go to the store for me? I made a list. I want boned chicken, the kind that comes in a jar, and rice or noodles. Here; this is the list." She handed it to me. "Tim'll give you the money."