To the Land of the Living

  The mask was hot and stifling now. The Sumerian felt that if he kept it on much longer he would choke. But he dared not move. He was caught in the little man’s spell. Sorcery, yes, definitely sorcery, Gilgamesh thought.

  “Do you know why I paint?” Picasso asked. “I say, each time, What can I learn of myself today that I don’t know? The paintings teach me. When it isn’t me any more who is talking, but the pictures I make, and when they escape and mock me, then I know I’ve achieved my goal. Do you know? Do you understand? No?” He shrugged. “Ah, it makes no difference. Here. Here, we can stop now. Enough for today. It goes well. Por dios, it goes well!”

  Gilgamesh lost no time working himself free of the mask. He gasped for fresh air, but there was none. The room was heavy with the scent of sweat.

  “Is it finished?” he asked. He had no idea how long he had posed, whether it had been ten minutes or half a day.

  “For now,” said Picasso. “Here: look.”

  He swung the easel around. Gilgamesh stared.

  What had he expected to see? The picture of a tall muscular man with a bull’s hideous face, gaping mouth, swollen tongue, wild red eyes looking in different directions, the face that was on the mask. But there were two naked men in the picture, crouched face to face like wrestlers poised to spring. One was huge, black-bearded, with powerful commanding features. Gilgamesh recognized himself in that portrait immediately: it was a remarkable likeness. The other man was much shorter, stocky, wide-shouldered, deep-chested. Picasso himself, plainly. But his face could not be seen. It was the short man who was wearing the mask of the bull.

  Three assassins were waiting for him when he stepped out into the Street of the Tanners and Dyers. Gilgamesh was neither surprised nor alarmed. They were so obviously lying in wait for him that he hardly needed them to draw their weapons to know what they were up to.

  They were disguised, more or less, as Uruk police, in ill-fitting khaki uniforms badly stained below the arms with sweat. One, with a big blunt nose and a general reek of garlic about him, might have been a Hittite, and the other two were Later Dead, with that strange yellow hair that some of them had, and pathetic straggly beards and mustaches. They had guns.

  Gilgamesh wasted no time. He struck one of the Later Dead across the throat with the edge of his hand and sent him reeling into a narrow alleyway, where he fell face forward and lay twitching and croaking and puking. On the backswing Gilgamesh rammed his elbow hard into the Hittite’s conspicuous nose, and at the same time he caught the other Later Dead by the wrist and twisted the pistol free of his grasp, kicking it across the street.

  The Later Dead yelped and took off at full speed, arms flailing wildly in the air. Gilgamesh drew his dagger and turned to the Hittite, who had both hands clapped to his face. Blood was pouring out between his fingers.

  He touched the tip of his dagger to the Hittite’s belly and said, “Who sent you?”

  “You broke my nose!”

  “Very likely. Next time don’t push it into my elbow that way.” The Sumerian said, with a little prod of the dagger, “Do you have a name?”

  “Tudhaliyash.”

  “That’s not a name, it’s a belch. What are you, a Hittite?”

  Tudhaliyash, looking miserable, nodded. The blood was flowing a little less copiously now.

  “Who do you work for, Hittite?”

  “The municipality of Uruk,” said the man sullenly. “Department of Weights and Measures.”

  “Were you here to weigh me, or to measure me?”

  “I was on my way to the tavern with my friends when you attacked us.”

  “Yes. I often attack strangers in the street, especially when they come in groups of three. Who sent you after me?”

  “It would be worth my life to say.”

  “It will be worth your life to keep silent,” said Gilgamesh, prodding a little harder. “One shove of this and I’ll send you on your way to your next life. But you won’t get there quickly. It takes a long time to die of a slash in the guts.”

  “Ur-ninmarka sent me,” the Hittite murmured.

  “Who?”

  “The royal arch-vizier.”

  “Ah. I remember. Dumuzi’s right hand. And who were you supposed to kill?”

  “G-G—G-Gil—”

  “Say it.”

  “Gilgamesh.”

  “And who is he?”

  “The former k-king.”

  “Am I Gilgamesh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am the man you were told to kill?”

  “Yes. Yes. Make it quick, Gilgamesh! In the heart, not the belly!”

  “It wouldn’t be worth the trouble of having to clean my blade of you afterward,” said Gilgamesh coolly. “I will be merciful. You’ll live to belch some more.”

  “A thousand blessings! A million blessings!”

  Gilgamesh scowled. “Enough. Get away from me. Show me how well you can run. Take your puking friend over there with you. I will forget this entire encounter. I remember nothing of you and I know nothing of who it was who sent you upon me. You didn’t tell me a thing. You understand? Yes, I think you do. Go, now. Go!”

  They ran very capably indeed. Gilgamesh leaned against the wall of Picasso’s house and watched until they were out of sight. A nuisance, he thought, being waylaid in the street like that. Dumuzi should show more imagination. Persuade some demons to have the pavement swallow me up, or drop a cauldron of burning oil on me from the rooftops, or some such.

  He looked around warily to see if anyone else lay in ambush for him. There was a faint ectoplasmic shimmer on the building across the way, as though some diabolic entity were passing through the walls, but that was nothing unusual. Otherwise all seemed well. Briskly Gilgamesh walked to the end of the street, turned left into a street calling itself the Street of Camels, and went onward via the Corridor of Sighs and the Place of Whispers to the great plaza where he was lodged.

  Herod was there, bubbling with news.

  “Your friend is indeed a prisoner in Uruk,” he said at once. “We’ve found out where he’s being kept.”

  Gilgamesh’s eyes widened. “Where is he?” he demanded. “What have they done to him? Who told you?”

  “Tukulti-Sharrukin’s our source, the Assyrian courtier who likes to drink too much. Your friend is fine. The Assyrian says Enkidu hasn’t been harmed in any way. He’s being held at a place called the House of Dust and Darkness on the north side of the city. The House of Dust and Darkness! Isn’t that a fine cheery name?”

  “You idiot,” Gilgamesh said, barely containing his anger.

  Herod backed away in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your Assyrian is playing jokes with you, fool. Any man of the Two Rivers would know what The House of Dust and Darkness is. It’s simply the name we used in the old days of Sumer for the place where dead people go. Don’t you see, we’re all in the House of Dust and Darkness!”

  “No,” Herod said, edging still farther back as Gilgamesh made menacing gestures. “I don’t know anything about Sumer, but that’s what the building is actually called. I’ve seen it. The name’s written right over the front porch in plain English. It’s just a jail, Gilgamesh. It’s Dumuzi’s special upscale jail for his political prisoners, very nice, very comfortable. It looks like a hotel.”

  “You’ve seen it, you say?”

  “Tukulti-Sharrukin took me there.”

  “And Enkidu? You saw him?”

  “No. I didn’t go inside. It’s not that much like a hotel. But Tukulti-Sharrukin says—”

  “Who is this Assyrian? Why do you have such faith in what he tells you?”

  “Trust me. He hates Dumuzi—something about a business deal that went sour, a real screwing, he and the king going partners on a land-development scheme and the king goniffing up the profits. He’ll do anything to stick it to Dumuzi now. He told me all about it the night of the feast. He and I hit it off like this, Gilgamesh, just like this. He’s a member of the tribe, you kn
ow.”

  “He’s what?”

  “A Jew. Like me.”

  Gilgamesh frowned. “I thought he was an Assyrian.”

  “An Assyrian Jew. His grandfather was Assyrian ambassador to Israel in King David’s time and fell in love with one of David’s nieces, and so he had to convert in order to marry her. It must have been one devil of a juicy scandal, a royal niece not only marrying a goy but an Assyrian, yet. David wanted to murder him, but he had diplomatic immunity, so the king had him declared persona non grata and he was sent home to Nineveh, but somehow he took her with him and then the family stayed kosher after he got back to Assyria. You could have knocked me over with a straw when he said he was a Yid, because he’s got that mean Assyrian face with the nose coming right out of the forehead, you know, and the peculiar curly beard they all wear with the tight ringlets, but when you listen for a little while to the way he speaks you won’t have any doubt that he’s—”

  “When I listen for a little while to the way you speak,” said Gilgamesh, “I feel like strangling you. Can’t you ever keep to the point? I don’t care who this ridiculous tribesman of yours did or did not marry. What I want to know is, will he help us to free Enkidu or won’t he?”

  “Don’t be an anti-Semite, Gilgamesh. It doesn’t look good on you. Tukulti-Sharrukin promises to do what he can for us. He knows the guy who runs the main computer at the House of Dust and Darkness. He’ll try to bugger up the software so that Enkidu’s name gets dropped from the prisoner roster, and maybe then we can slip him out the back way. But no guarantees. It isn’t going to be easy. We’ll know in a day or two whether it’s going to work out. I’m doing my best for you, you know.”

  Gilgamesh closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Herod was a colossal pain in the fundament, but he did get things done.

  “All right. Forgive me my impatience, Herod.”

  “I love it when you apologize. A minute ago you had that I-suffer-no-fools-gladly gleam in your eye and I thought you were going to knock me from here to Nova Roma.”

  “Why should I suffer fools gladly?”

  “Right. But I’m not all that much of a fool.” Herod grinned. “Let’s get on to other things. You know that Dumuzi has a contract out on you, don’t you?”

  “A contract?” said Gilgamesh, baffled again.

  “Zeus! Where did you learn your English? Dumuzi wants to have you killed, is what I’m saying. Tukulti-Sharrukin told me that too. Dumuzi’s frightened shitless that you’re going to make a grab for power here, and so—”

  “Yes, I know. Three buffoons tried to jump me as I was leaving Picasso’s. One of them admitted that he was working for Dumuzi.”

  “You kill them?”

  “I just damaged them a little. They’re probably halfway to Brasil by now, but I suppose there’ll be others. I’ll lose no sleep over it. Where’s Simon?”

  “At the baths, trying to sober himself up. He and I have an audience with the king in a little while. Simon wants to set up a trade deal, swap Dumuzi a couple dozen of his spare necromancers and thaumaturges and shamans for a few barrels of the diamonds and rubies and emeralds that he’s convinced Dumuzi possesses by the ton.”

  “Even a fool could see there is no great abundance of diamonds and rubies in this city.”

  “You tell Simon that. I’m only an employee. He’s four hundred percent convinced that this city is overflowing with precious gems, and you know how he salivates for precious gems. He’d sell his sister for six pounds of sapphires. Meshuggenah. Goyishe kup. Well, he’ll find out. How did things go with you and Picasso?”

  “He made me wear a strange mask, a bull’s face. But when he painted me, he was in the painting too, and the mask was on him. I could not understand that, Herod.”

  “It’s art. Don’t try to understand it.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. The man’s a genius. Have faith in him. He’ll paint a masterpiece, and who gives a crap which one of you has the mask? But you don’t understand these things, do you, Gilgamesh? You were great stuff in your time, they all tell me, a terrific warrior and a splendid civil engineer, even, but you do have your limits. After all, you have a goyishe kup too. Although I have to admit you manage all right, considering your handicap.”

  “You use too many strange words. Goyishe kup?”

  “It means you have Gentile brains.”

  “Gentile?”

  “That means not Jewish. Don’t be offended. You know how much I admire you. Do you and Picasso get along all right?”

  “We find each other amusing. He has invited me to sit with him at the bullfight on Sunday.”

  “Yes, the bullfight. His grand passion, watching skinny Spaniards stick swords into big angry animals. Another meshuggenah, Picasso. Him and his bullfights. A genius, but a meshuggenah.”

  “And a goyishe kup?” Gilgamesh asked.

  Herod looked startled. “Him? Well, I suppose so. I suppose. But a genius, all the same. At least he makes great paintings out of his bullfights. And everyone’s entitled to a hobby of some sort, I guess. An obsession, even.”

  “And what is yours?” said the Sumerian.

  Herod winked. “Surviving.”

  * * *

  SIXTEEN

  IT was one of those nights that went by in a moment, in the blink of an eye. That often happened in the Afterworld; but they were balanced by the days that seemed to last a week or two, or a month. Gilgamesh had been here so long that he scarcely minded the Afterworld’s little irregularities. He could remember clearly enough how it had been on Earth, the days in succession coming around at predictable intervals, but that seemed unreal to him now and woefully oppressive. Sleep meant little here, meals were unimportant: why should all the days be the same length? What did it matter?

  Now, by common consent, it was Sunday. The day of the bullfight. The calendar too fluttered and slid about, no rhyme, no reason. But the bullfight was to be held on Sunday, and the bullfight was today, and therefore today was Sunday. Tomorrow might be Thursday. What did it matter? What did it matter? Today was the day he would be reunited with Enkidu, if all went well. That was what mattered.

  The night, brief as it was, had been enlivened by a second attempt on Gilgamesh’s life. Nothing so crude as a team of thugs, this time, but it was simple-minded all the same, the old snake-in-the-ventilating-shaft routine. Gilgamesh heard slitherings in the wall. The grille, he discovered, had been loosened, probably by the maids who had come in to turn down the bed. He pushed it open and stood to one side, sword at the ready. The snake was a fine one, glossy black with brilliant red markings and eyes like yellow fire. Its fangs had the sheen of chrome steel. He regretted having to chop it in two; but what alternative, he wondered, did he have? Trap it in a bedsheet and call room service to take it away?

  The same motor-chariots that had transported Gilgamesh and his companions to the royal feasting-hall a few nights before were waiting out front to bring them to the stadium that morning. The bullfight, evidently, was the event of the season in Uruk. Half the city was going, judging by the number of cars traveling in the direction of the arena.

  Herod rode with Gilgamesh. The driver was a Sumerian, who genuflected before Gilgamesh, trembling with obvious awe: no assassin, not this one, unless he was one of the best actors in the Afterworld.

  The bullfight was being held well outside the city, in the sandy hill country to the east. The day was hot and overcast. Some long-fanged bat-winged demon-creatures, purple and red and green, soared lazily in the hazy sky.

  “It’s all arranged,” said Herod in a low voice, leaning toward Gilgamesh. They were near the stadium now. Gilgamesh could see it, tier upon stone tier rising from the flat desert. “Tukulti-Sharrukin will try to spring Enkidu from the House of Dust and Darkness just as the bullfight’s getting started. We’ll have half a dozen of Simon’s men posted nearby, with three of the Land Rovers. Everybody knows what to do. When Enkidu comes out of the jail building, he’ll get into one of t
he Rovers and all three will take off in different directions, but they’ll all head out this way.”

  “And Vy-otin?”

  “Smith, you mean?”

  “Smith, yes!”

  “He’ll be waiting just outside the stadium, the way you wanted. When the Land Rovers show up, Smith will meet the one with Enkidu and bring him in, and lead him to the box where you and Picasso will be sitting, which is right next to the royal box. Dumuzi will have a stroke when he sees him.”

  “If not when he sees him, then when I embrace him before the entire town,” Gilgamesh said. “The hero Gilgamesh reunited with his beloved Enkidu! What can Dumuzi say? What can he do? Everyone will be cheering. And after the bullfight—”

  “Yes?” Herod said. “After the bullfight, what?”

  “I will pay a call on King Dumuzi,” said Gilgamesh. “I will speak to him about the unfortunate error of judgment that led his officials to imprison my friend. I will do it very politely. Perhaps I will speak to him also about the state of law and order in the streets of his city, and about proper maintenance of the ventilating systems of his hostelry here. But that will be afterward. First we will enjoy the pleasure of the bullfight, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Herod glumly. “First the bullfight.”

  “You don’t look pleased.”

  “I never even liked to go to the gladiators,” the Judaean said. “And they deserved what they did to each other. But a poor dumb innocent bull? All that bleeding, all that pain?”

  “Fighting bulls is an art,” Gilgamesh replied. “Your great genius Picasso the painter told me so himself. And you are a man of culture, Herod. Think of it as a cultural experience.”

  “I’m a Jewish liberal, Gilgamesh. I’m not supposed to enjoy cruelty to animals.”