madness in it.
“Tell me, professor, you are a Christian, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Ah, and what does your faith seek? What is its purpose, its goal?”
“The salvation of mankind. Quite the opposite of yours.”
“Ah, perhaps, perhaps.” Zann leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, the smirk still in place. “But I would argue your premise, professor. The salvation of mankind? No, the destruction of mankind. That is what your god offers. The salvation of a select few, yes. The ones that follow him. And when your Christ returns? What is it that he has promised?”
“‘But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night,’” I quoted, “‘in which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.’ Yes, Dr. Zann, I know my scripture.”
“Then you know that we are not different, you and I. Except I do not seek the destruction of the earth; I seek its fulfillment. I do not seek the promise of eternal life, but its reality. Here, at the side of this world’s true masters, those who ruled in the long ago, and those who will rule again.”
“And how many would you kill to make it so? How many have you killed already? So that you and a chosen few can have your salvation?”
“Dr. Weston,” Zann said, his smile quivering at the edge of his mouth, “you and I both know that the world is made of means and ends, of those who rule and those who serve. Salvation, after all, is for the elect. For men such as you, and me. To resist is a useless gesture. They will return. You know it as well as I. The only question is whether we will share in the cup of their victory, or whether it will be our blood that fills it.”
“I wonder what your father would say about that.”
Zann laughed again, but this time, it was genuine. It was probably the first honest emotion I’d seen him express.
“My father? What would you know of him?”
“I’ve heard enough,” I said. “Enough to know that he was a great man.”
“A great man,” Zann spat. “Yes, I suppose you would think that. Let me tell you something about my father. One of my more vivid memories of him…I must have been five years old, if that. He was sitting in an upstairs room of our house, staring out the window. Our home, it sat on the banks of the Rhine River. Beautiful country. And he was gazing over the waters. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was only a child, but even at that tender age I knew well not to disturb my father when he was working. So I stood on the threshold of the room, hidden behind the door. But I could see him. He had his Stradivarius in his arms. Mein Gott , that violin was worth a fortune. It was two hundred years old if it was a day. He had it there, one hand on its neck, the other on his bow. Of course I thought nothing of it at the time but looking back—if Runge had been there, what a painting he could have made. The genius at work. The artist, deep in thought. That’s what my father was, you know? A musical force of nature. And there he was, ready to play. That’s how I would like to remember him. Yet, I don’t even have that, do I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Do you know why I remember that image of my father so well? Because he left, the next day. He took his violin—and nothing else—and just went. Abandoned us, my mother and me. It didn’t take us long to burn through the savings we had, substantial though they were. My mother, foolishly, tried to keep the house. She just couldn’t accept that he wasn’t coming back. That what we had was all we would ever have. From the Rhine to the slums of Berlin. That was the path I took. And I swore then that I would know what happened to him. I swore that I would track him down. I’m not sure what would have happened if I had found him. I’m not sure what I would have done.”
“But you didn’t
“Tell me, professor, you are a Christian, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Ah, and what does your faith seek? What is its purpose, its goal?”
“The salvation of mankind. Quite the opposite of yours.”
“Ah, perhaps, perhaps.” Zann leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, the smirk still in place. “But I would argue your premise, professor. The salvation of mankind? No, the destruction of mankind. That is what your god offers. The salvation of a select few, yes. The ones that follow him. And when your Christ returns? What is it that he has promised?”
“‘But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night,’” I quoted, “‘in which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.’ Yes, Dr. Zann, I know my scripture.”
“Then you know that we are not different, you and I. Except I do not seek the destruction of the earth; I seek its fulfillment. I do not seek the promise of eternal life, but its reality. Here, at the side of this world’s true masters, those who ruled in the long ago, and those who will rule again.”
“And how many would you kill to make it so? How many have you killed already? So that you and a chosen few can have your salvation?”
“Dr. Weston,” Zann said, his smile quivering at the edge of his mouth, “you and I both know that the world is made of means and ends, of those who rule and those who serve. Salvation, after all, is for the elect. For men such as you, and me. To resist is a useless gesture. They will return. You know it as well as I. The only question is whether we will share in the cup of their victory, or whether it will be our blood that fills it.”
“I wonder what your father would say about that.”
Zann laughed again, but this time, it was genuine. It was probably the first honest emotion I’d seen him express.
“My father? What would you know of him?”
“I’ve heard enough,” I said. “Enough to know that he was a great man.”
“A great man,” Zann spat. “Yes, I suppose you would think that. Let me tell you something about my father. One of my more vivid memories of him…I must have been five years old, if that. He was sitting in an upstairs room of our house, staring out the window. Our home, it sat on the banks of the Rhine River. Beautiful country. And he was gazing over the waters. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was only a child, but even at that tender age I knew well not to disturb my father when he was working. So I stood on the threshold of the room, hidden behind the door. But I could see him. He had his Stradivarius in his arms. Mein Gott , that violin was worth a fortune. It was two hundred years old if it was a day. He had it there, one hand on its neck, the other on his bow. Of course I thought nothing of it at the time but looking back—if Runge had been there, what a painting he could have made. The genius at work. The artist, deep in thought. That’s what my father was, you know? A musical force of nature. And there he was, ready to play. That’s how I would like to remember him. Yet, I don’t even have that, do I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Do you know why I remember that image of my father so well? Because he left, the next day. He took his violin—and nothing else—and just went. Abandoned us, my mother and me. It didn’t take us long to burn through the savings we had, substantial though they were. My mother, foolishly, tried to keep the house. She just couldn’t accept that he wasn’t coming back. That what we had was all we would ever have. From the Rhine to the slums of Berlin. That was the path I took. And I swore then that I would know what happened to him. I swore that I would track him down. I’m not sure what would have happened if I had found him. I’m not sure what I would have done.”
“But you didn’t
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