The Colossus (6 page)

Max stopped reading.

She ran her fingers over her grandfather’s writing and caressed the embossment of his seal, wondering what it might have been like on that hot day in India, all those years ago. Her eyes stung as she thought about her young and ambitious, blind and foolish Opa.

She turned the pages. “The next few pages are torn,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She turned some more pages. “There’s some writing about his work on the pills. Maybe there’s something about the time he was sent to the concentration camp—”

She set the diary down and looked away.

“Lets stop here while I have some time,” Julian said, “and see what I can find about that dig, perhaps.”

He pushed back his chair and began looking through the books piled in disarray on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. He plucked out a few from the floor, one or two from under his desk. He shoved aside a large pile of exam papers to make room for them. He opened one book and put it away. He opened another and, with an irritated grunt, tossed it aside. He picked up a third. A leather-bound book titled
Ancient Civilizations: Archeological Dig Data.
“This is a chronicle of who did what and where,” Julian said. A cloud of dust rose from the book as he set it on the desk. With his palm, he wiped the book clean and sat down with a contented sigh.

Julian laid the book flat on the table. “In ‘35 to ‘38 there were five recorded expeditions. Lets see. Dr. Bernard Baston’s group is listed
here.” He read some more. “Nothing else.” Julian scowled and muttered something Max didn’t catch. Suddenly his face brightened and he dashed out.

“Wha—?” Max began. But he was gone. She got up and stood at the door for a few minutes. Should she go look for him?

She went back into his office. Such a cozy space—filled to the brim with musty books, the aroma of fresh coffee still in the air. Through an open window, she could hear the pleasant murmur of passing students on the street a couple floors below. With a sigh, Max returned to her chair. The headrest popped up. Perfect. She let her head fall back.

“Maxine Rosen,” a voice called.

She jumped up, disoriented for a second or two. She had fallen asleep! How awful. She turned. Julian was at the door, holding the doorway with his hands, leaning in. A rascally grin played on his lips.

Max felt moistness on her chin. Drool! She turned away and wiped her mouth with the back of her palm. She should tell him how she had been up curled up in a ball all night trying to be brave. She should tell him everything she had been through the night before. She wanted desperately to prove to him that she wasn’t the sleepy oaf she appeared to be.

She turned back to face him with a forced smile and was about to pick up her bag when Julian took her hand in a firm grip. “I think I may have found something,” he whispered.

They went back to the library area. Julian opened the door to a room at the back of the library with a brass plaque labeled
Microfilm Area
. It was air-conditioned as cold as a winter day in Greenland, Max thought.

“There’s a book,” Julian said. “People laughed at it when it was released. It has been out of print for years. We had one copy but it’s long lost.” He pulled out a chair in front of a microfilm viewer. “Luckily, it’s here. Look at the screen.”

Magnified on the screen in front of her was a yellowing sheet of paper.
Indus Valley
. Sub heading:
Societies and Clubs
. Max’s heart began to race. She glanced at Julian.

“Read,” he commanded.

She read aloud.

“No fewer than six known groups, perhaps many more, were formed by people who had visited the Indus Valley, an advanced civilization.
Blah blah. How do I turn the page…okay, got it.” Max pressed the turn button.

“Go on, go on,” Julian urged. He began to pace.

“I’m trying,” she said. “Okay,
Indus Religions, as the name suggests, was a club whose focus was religion as pertained to the
—”

“Not that one. Go to the end of the page,” Julian said, still pacing.

“Okay,” Max said, exasperated. “
A group called Umrit was in all probability formed following an expedition in 1935 headed by Dr. Bernard Baston. This author speculates that the club might have been formed to celebrate or record something special they found at the valley.

“The term
Umrit
means ‘the nectar of immortality’ in Hindoo mythology. It is a tantalizing idea that what they may have found may have inspired the intriguing name given to the club. Inevitably, the club became legend and stories about an Indus pill of immortality began appearing in newspapers. Baston used the limelight to direct attention to his more important work on the dig. He was eventually awarded a Chancellor’s medal for his work.

Names of members: founding member Bernard Baston, Andre Georges, Ulrike Johannsen…”
Max went down the list.
“Honorary members: Abdul Chapar, Fardoon Chapar, and Dr. Samuel Rosen.”
Max swallowed hard and looked up at Julian.

He was looking at her with palms turned upwards, as if expecting her to cry “Eureka” or something.

“Any current members?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I checked these names. They’re archeologists and all dead. The two Chapars are the guides mentioned in the diary,” Julian said. “Look at the very end.”

At the bottom of the page was the symbol of the seal from her grandfather’s diary. Below it was a Swastika—Opa’s lucky symbol had been this group’s symbol, too.

“This doesn’t tell us anything new,” Max said glumly.

Julian looked askance at her.

Max didn’t want to appear like a complete idiot to this crazy cute, brilliant professor. “How about descendants?” she said, working up some enthusiasm. “Like me.”

Julian looked unimpressed. “They key takeaway here is that since Bernard Baston was awarded the Chancellor’s medal, there might still be papers relevant to the dig.”

Max looked puzzled.

“He was German,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice.

“So?”

Julian looked positively irritated. “
Ai, yi yi
, Ms. Rosen, Germans those days were obsessed with preserving records. Probably still are. And if he won a medal, I bet his records are archived somewhere. A good place to start might be the Archeological Society at the DANK Haus—German American Cultural Center. The chaps there might know something. Let’s go back to my office.”

Back at Julian’s office, Max felt drained. This wasn’t what she did well. Legwork. And research! She had detested doing it for her job at Granger Foods.

If there had been doubts before, there were absolutely none now: she was a cook and nothing but a cook—heart and soul, every sinew, every cell of her being. She felt a gush of warmth and possessive love for her fumbling little catering company, her demanding clients, her elaborate, labored-over menus, her barely affordable employees.

Julian got busy investigating the DANK Haus website.

The reality of her situation suddenly struck Max. Memories of the state of her apartment from the night before flashed in front of her eyes. Followed by an image of Lars being shot.

This was a huge mistake. She was not qualified to do any of this. Max touched the arms of her chair and got up. It was time to put an
end to this madness. She was faced with the very real possibility that Papa had been killed. This was a job for the police. Certainly not for catering company owners with anxiety issues. She should go to the cops. She would explain everything and they…they…

They would sit back and laugh.

She shivered and collapsed back into the chair. Truth was, the people who had caused her father’s death were out there somewhere. And they were possibly watching her.

“Someone from DANK Haus emailed me right away!” Julian almost did a little jig in his office chair. “He has found information about Baston’s club. He’s going to make some calls. There’s a place in Hamburg that houses archeological records. He bets they will have Baston’s dig records. He’ll fax them over to me once he gets them faxed from Germany. Because of Baston’s medal, they preserved almost every single sheet of paper they could find on the guy. Max? Ms. Rosen?”

“Huh?” Max looked at Julian. He was eager to help and so interested.
And
he was smart and resourceful. Of course it didn’t help that her entire being ached just to look at him.

A phone rang. Julian answered it. “Yes Dr. Jackson, I got the email. Now? Well, all right. Be there in a bit.” He hung up and made a face. “I’m sorry. I would have loved to read the rest of the diary with you, but I have to see someone right away.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m really sorry.” He picked up a smart-looking tan briefcase and moved to the door.

He looked at her with an expression of…was it regret? Max squared her shoulders. If she left now, she would not see him again. She held on to that thought for strength. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” she asked, her voice turning hoarse.

Julian seemed taken aback.

“As, as a thank you,” Max spluttered. “I’m an excellent cook—and maybe we can read the rest of the diary, too. If you like. Not like a date or anything…” She gave a weak laugh and trailed off.

A second later he broke her heart. “That’s sweet of you. But Raq…” He hesitated for several seconds, his eyes searching her face. “I have,
uh, to work,” he stammered. He looked flustered. His cheeks had turned pink.

Max managed to keep a straight face. All she wanted to do was turn around and run. She steeled herself. There was a lot more she wanted from this nice guy than a fun evening out. He probably had a girlfriend, maybe even a wife. And four adorable kids. But she wanted to see him again. How was that for conflicting feelings?

She needed to make her offer enticing enough. She tried to be breezy. “It’s just that I realize you are far more capable of doing this than I can ever be. If you’re willing, this could be an extremely interesting historical problem.” She ran her tongue over her dry lips. This was urgent, important, and she didn’t have many choices. “Not to mention it involves a suspicious death,” she said. “But you’re busy. Never mind. Thank you so much for your time.”

Julian, it seemed, had finally been stunned into silence. His jaw went slack. He started to say something, but his phone began to ring again.

Max picked up her bag as nonchalantly as she could. Julian stood speechless, his phone still ringing. Max worried that she had frightened him. Oh well, it was too late now to change tactics and not look stupid. She had started the drama. She had to finish it.

She took a few baby steps toward the door, hoping he’d stop her. But he didn’t. She turned. Julian had picked up the phone and was speaking in urgent whispers. He raised his arm and waved. Tentatively she waved back. His back was turned to her now.

Inspiration struck. She took out one of her business cards, scribbled her home address and phone number on it, and placed it on his desk in a spot where she knew he wouldn’t miss it. She watched him for a while more.

Then she left.

Max hung up her cell phone and pinched herself. She wasn’t dreaming. He was coming. Here, to her apartment. To drop off the papers the DANK Haus people had faxed over. But he was coming and that’s what mattered. And he wasn’t opposed to eating, but only if she was going to cook anyway.

Max rushed to the kitchen. She was going to cook a simple meal. The urge to go overboard was strong, but she would resist it. The last time she had cooked for a date had been over six months ago. Not that this was a date, but still.

The last time a truly attractive man had stopped by for dinner had been well over a year ago. A blind date set up by Uncle Ernst with a nice Jewish boy, a gentle soul whom Max had really liked. But at the end of a wonderful dinner he had blurted that he was gay and cried for an hour on her shoulder.

Kyle, Max’s boyfriend of three years, had left her eighteen months earlier. She was getting heavy, he had said. And
he
was no Cary Grant to start with. Still, it wasn’t as though the relationship had ever been wonderful. Even on the best days it had been just about adequate—the affection, the sex, the conversation.

Max had begun to suspect that after the first year, Kyle had stayed on because she had cooked him delicious breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Every single day. His leaving had been a bit of a relief, for she had tired of playing cook, mechanical lover, and cleaner. And so when Kyle hemmed and hawed about her weight, she felt a release of
tension she hadn’t known she had been harboring for so long. She let him leave, much to his surprise. And after, she had a nice cry, took a shower, put on her best dress, and went out.

Anyway, this was not a date and Julian wasn’t Kyle.

She made pasta primavera, with veggies slightly crunchy and the pasta—farfalle—just a little
al dente
. She baked a few mini loaves of crusty garlic bread. To go with those, she made a spicy, tomato-based dipping sauce seasoned with mint and a dash of chipotle peppers for smoky heat. For dessert, she made a butternut squash flan. It was a simple recipe that came out looking like a much labored upon dish.

She set the oven to warm and kept the food inside. The table was set with her grandmother Martha’s German crockery. No wine. Wine would give the wrong impression. But she was serving Italian food. Damn.

There was a knock on the door a few minutes before seven. Gorgeous
and
punctual.
I like
, she thought. She pulled up her obscenely expensive Spanx underpants, sucked in her belly, went to the door, and opened it with a bright smile.

There stood Uncle Ernst with a small bowl. Matzo ball soup. His weeknight special. “Expecting me?” He smiled.

Max put her head out the door for an instant. The corridor was empty.

“Hmm.” He entered the kitchen and sniffed the air.

Max looked horrified.

Uncle Ernst patted her cheek. “I’m not staying. Take this. I made it from scratch!”

“Thank you.” She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Someone special coming, eh?” He leaned towards her.

The explanation was too long for her to get into now.

“Yes,” she said with a shrug, which was true. Ernst shook a finger at her. “Don’t do anything I would.” He laughed, probably thinking about his own days of wining and dining young girls. He had told her many stories. “Have you lost weight child, you look positively skinny!”

Max grimaced.

“I’m going…going, I’m gone.”

Max watched Uncle Ernst amble toward the elevator.

It was 7:15. No Julian.

At 8:00p.m. there was a knock on the door.

“I’m so sorry, so very sorry.” Julian handed her a small bouquet of tired-looking white lilies. Funereal flowers.

Max took the flowers with a gracious smile. Julian set a large manila envelope on the coffee table and turned to face her, his hands clasped in front of him in apology. “I was held up.” He sounded out of breath and sincere.

Max held the flowers away from her. She was trying to say they looked lovely, but that would be a lie. They looked half dead and were scaring her. “Thanks for these,” she managed.

Julian glanced at them. “They look more horrific than I thought.” He let out a nervous guffaw.

He looked like a sad puppy. Max wanted to hug him.

“But I have this to make up for the flowers,” he said brightly. “It’s only sold at a small French bistro in London that I like.” He handed her a bottle of wine.

Max took it from him. “Thank you and relax, its okay.” She started to take the food out of the oven. “Hope you’re hungry,” she said.

Julian walked toward the large windows facing the lake. The sun had set, but a pink glow of light remained. “Oh yes, I only had a light supper ages ago,” he said. “What a view!”

Max checked the flan. It was a deep burnt orange color with a light brown layer of caramelized sugar on top. Perfect. She put the pasta and garlic bread on her grandmother’s serving dishes. “Dinner is served,” she said gaily.

Julian looked at the dining table. “You made all this?”

Max looked at the food. “I left it all in the oven and forgot I had put on a timer so it wouldn’t dry out. Now I don’t think it’s very warm.” She wrung her hands. How did people give effortless dinners? How did food stay hot for guests who arrived late?

Julian walked into the kitchen, opened a few drawers, and found a corkscrew. Max pulled out two dusty wine glasses and gave them a good wipe down while Julian uncorked. He poured the wine and handed Max a glass. “
Sláinte
!” He raised his glass, checked the bouquet, and sighed with pleasure. He took a sip.

Max did the same. The wine smelled of the French countryside—she had never been there, but she was sure this was what it would smell like. She closed her eyes and in her mind saw Julian and herself cavorting on lush green fields in some vineyard in the Mediterranean somewhere, on an isolated island perhaps, with indulgent workers looking on and giggling.

Julian touched her arm. She snapped back to the present. They began eating.

“Delicious,” Julian said.

“Thank you. Uh…I’ve been meaning to ask,” Max said, “hope it’s not rude. Your accent is so, uh,” she could not say delicious or sexy. “Interesting.”

Julian threw his head back and laughed. “I grew up in Northumberland County. In Berwick upon Tweed. It borders Scotland. Father Scottish, mother English. Bit mongrel now, my accent, with English and American influences.”

“Long way from East Asia,” Max said with a smile.

“I loved Asian mythology growing up. Mum was a bit crazy about pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup, while pregnant with me. The interest must have been passed on that way!”

Max laughed. They talked a little about his family and the beauty of Northumberland. Finally Julian put down his fork. He studied his plate for a second and turned to Max with a satisfied smile. “Thank you,” he said. “That was excellent.”

Max felt her heart swell with pleasure.

“Dessert?” she offered.

“Sure,” he said.

She got up, brought out the flan, and served him a slice.

He took a bite and considered it. “So,” he said, “I have the papers from DANK Haus.”

Max sighed. It was as though Julian had just put out the romantic candles she had lit in her mind with one single blow, and turned on a harsh florescent light.

Julian pushed back his chair and picked up his wine. “Did you read any more of the diary?”

“No. I was hoping maybe you might have some time, but if you don’t, it’s fine.”

Julian didn’t speak. Max sat on her couch. Julian seemed to hesitate, but sat down, too. The diary was on the coffee table. He gestured for her to open it.

Max started reading.

There was one entry on the work Opa had done upon returning from India. Dull stuff. Drugs he had worked on, accolades he had received. Then there were some pages about sending his wife Martha to Geneva.

Opa had also written at length about realizing the harsh truth of being a Jew—even a privileged one—in Nazi Germany. The realization had finally hit, it seemed, after
Kristallnacht
—Crystal Night—happened. It was a horrific anti-Jewish directive Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels had called for. Numerous synagogues were set on fire and Jewish businesses and homes looted. Thousands were arrested and sent to concentration camps, and all Jewish pupils were expelled from public schools. It had finally dawned on Opa that Germany had become hell for his people and that it was too late for him to leave. But he had held on to the hope that at Berliner he was still safe.

All of this was written without sentiment, but Max could almost feel the searing pain of her poor grandfather’s comprehension that he had been a fool to consider himself immune.

As for the Indus pills, he had worked on them, run numerous tests.
Nothing but vegetable matter content
, the tests had shown over and over. No unusual ingredients, nothing of note.

“Not much of use here.” Max got up. “Would you like some coffee?”

Julian nodded. “So does a pretty lady like you have a boyfriend?” he said out of nowhere. “Many boyfriends?” he added with a wink.

Max shook her head, wanting to sink down to the floor. Was he making fun of her?

“I cannot believe it,” Julian said.

Max frowned. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He actually seemed puzzled that she didn’t have a string of boyfriends. Boy, he was so darling.

“Well, if you want the ugly truth, my last one left because he thought I was getting heavy. I was with him for too long. He left me with a rather distorted sense of self.” She wished she could rid herself of his disapproving glances. His barely hidden grimace every time he saw her naked. Holding her breath and sucking in her belly until she was blue in the face in order to look more attractive to him.

She closed her eyes. She shouldn’t have opened herself up like this to a stranger.

“A dreadful man,” Julian said sharply. “Been hit by a bus since, I hope.”

Max focused on getting coffee.

Julian was silent for a while. “I read an interesting research paper not long ago about beauty standards over the centuries and in different cultures,” he said slowly. “You know if you had lived one century ago, you’d be the belle of the town.”

Max returned to the couch with two steaming cups.

Julian took a sip. He looked deep into her eyes. “Magazines, the media have conditioned us to think the way we do. So think of it this way. In those days Twiggy or whoever the latest supermodel is would be considered not beautiful at all. Too boyish. Not feminine enough. Too many angles, not enough curves.”

“Twiggy, huh?” Max tried not to laugh. “You
are
a historian, aren’t you? But point taken.”

Julian put down his cup and leaned toward Max. His hand was close to hers. She could feel warmth emanating from his fingertips, willing hers to move closer. “In the Kayan Lahwi tribe in Myanmar, women lengthen their necks by putting on these rings. It’s very painful. In China they used to tie women’s feet to make them smaller. The ideal foot had to fit into a four inch shoe.”

Max winced.

“The bindings were so tight, they could lead to gangrene and blood poisoning. Women couldn’t walk because they’d keel over and fall. The practice lasted a century. Today, women subject themselves to liposuction, breast enhancements. My point is—”

Max looked at her hands and inched them closer to his. Their fingertips were touching now.

“You are beautiful if
you
think so. Why does
Vogue
or whatever airbrushed magazine get to decide? You decide.” Julian turned his attention back to his coffee.

Max looked at Julian wanting to ask,
and what have you decided?
But she couldn’t. And she shouldn’t.

Julian glanced at her, a sweet expression filling his eyes.
“Yer mair bonny than ye wull ever ken
,
”
he whispered.

“What did you say?” Max asked, her heartbeat quickening.

“Nothing.” He turned away quickly. He looked angry.

“Perhaps we should read on,” Max said, swallowing hard. She picked up the diary and turned to the next entry.