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DECEMBER 2006 |
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God Loves You A black handprint had been stamped at the bottom. Today’s note read: “WE ARE STILL WATCHING YOU.” Ravi Judas Levi’s eyes roamed to the bottom of the paper, where another black handprint sent a cold shiver up his spine. The note dropped from his trembling hands and he got down on his knees to pray to his life-sized plastic Christ effigy. This effigy was only one of an impressive collection that Ravi Judas Levi kept in his apartment’s tiny closet. A few days ago, when he’d returned home to honor the Sabbath, he’d discovered the first note, which had left him so agitated that he’d burned his hands heating water for tea. Not wanting to ruin the evening, he’d sat at his dinette table wearing his Yarmulke and had nodded solemnly to his imaginary guests, assuring them of his presence at the synagogue on the coming high holy days. He only entertained real people prior to killing them, which, for obvious reasons, never took place at his own kitchen table. He lay in bed that night considering his devotion to Hinduism, which he’d neglected recently. Last year, he’d celebrated Diwali at the temple, where he’d asked the priests to perform prayers on his behalf. He’d been mesmerized by the festive lights, and for a while afterwards, had regularly attended Pujas, offering fruit and money to the many Hindu Gods. He wore a cross at all times, though he kept it hidden so it wouldn’t interfere with his other religious ventures. He’d tried joining an Evangelical choir, but his voice grated and his appearance was suggestive of his profession, so he’d resigned himself to sitting unobtrusively in the back pews. Several years ago, he’d received a gunshot wound to the head, and his past had receded into the shadows of his mind. He’d turned to the future, hoping to settle down with his girlfriend, but it was not to be. “Judas,” she’d said, “your religious obsession borders on the fanatical, and I’m afraid that entering any further into this relationship would be tantamount to suicide.” “But, Babe I...” “But what, Judas? You’re untruthful. How can you claim to be a salesman but be unaware of what you sell? Is it those plastic religious effigies? That certainly wouldn’t surprise me. Judas?” Silence hung in the air before he answered: “I don’t know what I sell, but I’ll find out.” “And another thing: Why are your sentences comprised exclusively of monosyllabic words. I find it offensive. Say something of substance, Judas.” “I don’t want.. you to go.” “Enough! I’ll follow your example: See you!” He’d stared helplessly after her surreal beauty sashaying out of his life. Ultimately there’d been nothing left to do but to engage in a new love, named Islam. As an avid devotee of his new religion, he’d embarked on a pilgrimage to Mecca, riding through the arid desert on a camel’s back. This selfless act, while expunging him of sin, had also wiped out his life savings. He’d returned home to the mean streets only to re-enter a life of crime, following which he’d been too ashamed to embrace Islam. His scant memories of childhood included a summer’s day with him sitting in the front seat of the old Chevy, which his father drove down the sun-baked road with his hooded eyes on the road. Ravi Judas Levi failed to notice his father’s growing agitation as he spoke of God’s beauty. He was rapturously absorbed in his ranting when his father slammed his fist into the dashboard. “God doesn’t exist, Dammit!” The narrow slits of his father’s eyes burned into his face with abject hatred. Hot tears spilled down Ravi Judas Levi’s cheeks as he cried for the last time he could ever remember. Shortly thereafter, his father left, following which Ravi Judas Levi resorted to monosyllables, fully convinced that his endless babbling was responsible for his dad’s departure. His mother’s all-consuming rage only confirmed this. “Stop! Please!” He would beg her as she beat him with a wooden spoon. “No,” she hissed. “You are born of the Devil.” Could her words have been true? Only God knew, and he did not answer, day after day, night after night. His career had started with one indiscretion followed by several arrests, progressing to coercion, assault, extortion, and murder, following which he had gradually descended into what felt like the ninth circle of Hell. Night time came but sleep did not. The sun rose while Ravi Judas Levi’s thoughts remained submerged in a quagmire. Through all of this, he’d begged to hear God’s voice. Now, he bowed his head and prayed more fervently than ever to the plastic Christ figure, softly recounting the hideous depth of his sins. Maybe he was lucky that his prayers went unanswered. God didn’t deal in promises, lies or threats like the living. God might deliver the ultimate punishment. When he returned home the next day, a new note waited: “WE ARE SICK OF WATCHING YOU. YOU ARE TIRED OF SEARCHING FOR GOD. TONIGHT, A MAN WEARING A RED TIE HOLDING A WHITE ROSE WILL APPEAR AT YOUR DOOR. THROUGH HIM YOU WILL FIND GOD.” Ravi Judas Levi stared at the black handprint beneath the words before falling to his knees and murmuring a fervent prayer through his parched lips. His fear departed and he smiled as he hadn’t in years. The doorbell rang and he stood, a momentary wave of dizziness unsettling him. He steadied himself, before flinging open the door with grateful tears still wet on his cheeks. The man standing at the threshold wore a red tie and carried a white rose. “You’re here!” Ravi Judas Levi exclaimed. “Yes,” the man replied, “I’ve come to wish you a Merry Christmas.” “I thought you would help me find God.” The man smiled, dropping his white rose. It was then Ravi Judas Levi noticed his black-gloved hands: “Just like the note,” he remarked. “Indeed!” The man sneered, whipping out a pistol from inside his jacket and aiming it at Ravi Judas Levi, whose frail form proceeded to twitch violently from the impact of multiple bullets ripping through him at close range. Then the Lord’s hand reached out for his, its silken touch soft and welcoming in contrast with the rough road of his life. Ravi Judas Levi stood in place for several seconds as rivulets of blood streamed from his open wounds. In a final gesture, his hands raised to the ceiling. “Death is here!” Was Ravi Judas Levi’s final monosyllabic reference to life before he collapsed. The gunman lowered his weapon and observed the gentle breeze from the partially opened window ruffling the dead man’s fine, brown hair. He took note of the rich, red blood soaking steadily into the stained wooden floorboards. Ravi Judas Levi appeared to shimmer in the light, and the gunman shivered before quietly closing the door and exiting the building. Ravi Judas Levi lay lifeless on the cold, wooden floor for a long time. It was Gina Schmidt, his downstairs neighbor, who called the landlord in response to the red liquid dripping steadily from the ceiling and pooling on her living room carpet. The landlord came and after listening to her talk for several minutes, shoved her rudely against the wall. “You’re always alone,” he whispered hotly in her ear, “that must mean you’re lonely.” “Stop!” She gasped, twisting away from his grip. “You know that I’m here for you.” The landlord breathed heavily down her neck. “I’m going to vomit,” Gina Schmidt said shrilly. “Honey, I think you need me!” The landlord groped her once more and smiled obscenely at her. “I only called you to take care of the red drops.” She huffed, “not for this.” The landlord stared at the ceiling, and a red drop smacked against his forehead. “I don’t see anything, lady. You’re crazy.” He walked out. Next, Sujit Misra complained of a foul odor emanating from his neighboring apartment. “Frankly, I’d be worried,” he told the landlord over the phone. “Frankly, your rent is in arrears, Mr. Misra, so I’d keep quiet if I were you.” Mr. Misra spoke to his other neighbor, Sheryl Weinstein, and she called the police. “Forget about the landlord,” she explained to Misra, “he’s exclusively interested in getting laid.” “I truly believe this is an emergency,” she conspiratorially told to the police dispatcher. After breaking down Ravi Judas Levi’s door and finding his body on the floor in a state of semi-decay, the police attempted to discover his true identity, which proved to be as illusive as his religion of the day. They turned to the neighbors for help. “His name was Levi, and he was a loyal Jew. We went to the synagogue together on high holy days.” Ms. Weinstein confirmed. “No, that’s impossible.” Mr. Misra was annoyed, “His name was Ravi, and he was a devoted Hindu who regularly attended Pujas at the temple where I worship.” “That’s nonsense,” said Gina Schmidt, “His name was Judas, and he was a devout Christian. Any idiot can see that he was shot down while praying to a Christ figure.” “I don’t really care what religion he was,” The rookie detective assigned to the case whined, “I just need to know his legal name.” But the tenants were beyond concern for his needs. “Don’t you know that a good Hindu knows nothing of Judaism, nor should he concern himself with such matters?” Misra spat at Sheryl Weinstein, who reddened several shades. “For your information,” she huffed, “Jews are the chosen people and you, Mr. Misra, should be condemned to the fires of Hindu Hell.” “Jesus Christ Almighty,” Gina Schmidt yelled, “By the time our Lord and Savior comes to take us into the Kingdom of Heaven, I hope you two idiots will have figured it all out.” “I’m confused,” the detective sighed, wiping sweat from his acne-ridden forehead. “Shut up, you goddamned pimple-faced bastard!” Sheryl Weinstein shrieked at him. Ravi Judas Levi’s soul regarded his neighbors, wishing it could impart to them that religion’s true essence was that of multiple rivers leading to an ocean that was infinitely vast and ultimately forgiving. Unable to reach them, however, his soul soared through the ceiling to embrace a higher, undefined God, who was accepting of even those like Ravi Judas Levi, who had stolen and killed, knowingly and willingly. The police cleared Ravi Judas Levi’s closet of his collection of plastic effigies and took them down to the precinct, where they were stored as evidence. But evidence of what is the question: Evidence of the existence of God or Gods, evidence of a murder that was in no way related to plastic religious effigies in the first place? These are questions the police never sought to answer, because frankly, they really didn’t care. They closed the case and rubber stamped it: “Unsolved.” They have at this point ceased entirely to remember its existence. Mr. Misra, Ms. Weinstein and Ms. Schmidt, unable to reconcile their differences, thereafter passed one another in the halls in silence. They have since moved away from their old dwelling. Periodically, they pass each other on the street and say nothing. Not one of them is aware that the man who was gunned down praying to a plastic, life-size Christ effigy watches over them from a world beyond this one. And since in life he only spoke in monosyllables, he passes on this minimalist message: “God loves you!” which they never hear. For this indiscretion, Ravi Judas Levi forgives them, continuing eternally in his mission. Pavelle Wesser has published fiction and poetry in various webzines and paper magazines, such as Ascent Aspirations, Wingspan Quarterly, Long Story Short, Ken Again, and Aphelion. She is the program manager of an adult education site in Connecticut, where she lives with her husband, two children and two dogs. |
