Mysterium

Ruth stood up. “Howard, it’s getting late. Things being what they are, you shouldn’t cut it too close to curfew. But before you go, there’s something I want you to see.”

∞

She led him up the stairs to a door at the end of a dim corridor. “It used to be a spare bedroom,” Ruth said. “He made it into his study.”

The door opened on a tiny room crowded with bookcases, the bookcases overflowing with volumes Howard supposed had been his uncle’s. There were physics journals shelved with religious esoterica, philology texts next to photo reproductions of Aramaic codices. Had Stern taught himself to read Aramaic? It was unlikely, Howard thought, but far from impossible.

The room was obviously Stern’s. There was a sweater hanging from the back of the wooden chair that faced an oak desk, an electric typewriter—no computer.

The room even smelled like Stern, a musty echo of pipe tobacco and crumbling paper. Howard felt dizzy with the memories it evoked.

“I never went in here much,” Ruth said. “He didn’t like me to. I didn’t even clean. Even now, I don’t go in here very often. It feels funny. But I’ve looked at a few things.” She picked up a thick bundle of typewritten pages bound with a rubber band. “He left this.”

Howard took the manuscript from her. “What is it?”

“His diary,” she said. “The one he never showed the people at the lab.”

The single word JOURNAL was typed on the top page. Howard regarded it with wide eyes. He said, “Have you read it?”

“Only a little. It’s technical. I don’t understand it.” She looked at him solemnly. “Maybe you will.”

Part Three