The Ninth Berth – Tractate 3: Angels
3/N
This is the third part of my serialized novella The Ninth Berth. Previously: Tractate 2.
Tractate 3: Angels
00:05 – 01:02
The train accelerated past the checkpoint barricade and into a pine forest. The line of trees made a dark spiked wall so high it hid the skies, so close you could have touched the needles if the windows weren’t locked.
Our gooseneck reading lights cast a yellow beam on the ceiling. Nobody had complained when I turned off the room’s sterile overhead lamp. I leaned against the outer bulkhead, facing the door and doing nothing, the pine trees behind.
Shesh stood up, his balding head a ring of gray hair outlining it like a crown.
Let’s see if they have tea here. Tea, anyone? he asked.
We all signaled no thank you.
He poked his head into the corridor as if checking for traffic and slipped out, wobbling slightly as his handless arm slid the door shut.
Kagami sat on his mattress with hands on his lap and eyes on the window.
Miss Whitman, he said.
Yes?
What kind of mathematics do you do?
She feigned surprise.
There’s only one kind of mathematics, she said.
Sorry. I meant which parts do you know the best?
My PhD was about algebraic topology. Also did number theory, calculus, algebraic geometry, logic. The basic stuff.
The basic stuff, he smirked. I am not a mathematician but I use mathematics a lot.
You use math?
I am a physicist. I do fundamental research. Also cosmology. I worked on pulsars.
I was worried you’d say you’re a statistician.
Kagami let the sarcasm fade, then spoke.
Mathematicians think that statistics is not... he searched for the word, beautiful. He looked at the sky beyond the glass and trees.
This is not wrong, he said after a pause. But you can do magic with statistics. You can locate stars.
That’s fair. You’re talking of VLBI, very long baseline interferometry, right?
For example. VLBI can measure signals at the nanosecond scale. Imagine pointing a laser to a grain of rice on the Moon. Thanks to statistics.
Yeah, that’s impressive, she said, unimpressed.
As I noted Kagami’s grin, he caught my stare.
And you, sir, what do you do?
Freelance writer. I have a law background, though. More about logic than math.
You sound American too. Are you travelling together? He gestured towards Seraphina Whitman. She turned to see my reaction.
No, we don’t know each other. I live in the US but was born in London. I’ve a British passport, I added, expecting them to ask. Kagami nodded and didn’t ask for details.
The door opened and Menachem Shesh returned. No tea.
Friends, he said, I must go to sleep...
He bent to adjust his sheets with his only hand. When he was done he addressed me from under.
You will have to sleep too, Miles... even in this train. When you sleep, your soul visits the angels and they tell you their secrets... that’s what the Zohar says.
I wasn’t sure if he meant anything or was just exhausted.
I’ll tell you if I see them, I said.
Be careful of the unclean spirits on your way... That’s why I’m afraid of sleep.
I’m not afraid of spirits. Good night, rabbi.
You shouldn’t be afraid. How else do you win the fight?
He lay down and switched his light off and wished us good night and whispered prayers in a sacred tongue. I understood nothing but our names: Kagami, Marston, Whitman. I ignored that for now. I needed the restroom. I climbed down using the tiny foldable ladder attached to the berth frame and walked out in socks on the cold linoleum.
The corridor was lit just enough to see my steps. The compartments on one side, wide windows on the other. We’d entered a flat rural land with rare signs of civilization and light only in the cloudless sky. I paused, forehead against the glass, watched the world scroll by. Daytime trains all feel the same—the boarding and unboarding rituals, the unspoken negotiations between strangers pretending not to observe each other. Night trains are different and this one even more so. The bubble of light, the forced intimacy. They’re slower not just in speed but as if time dilated. I liked night trains. I told myself again that leaving was the right call, I’d escaped the madness.
I walked to the bottom of the car, a dead end with a water fountain and an out-of-order coffee machine. I pulled a cardboard cup from a vertical dispenser and stuck it under the fountain. It took forever to fill. I drank half and tossed the cup in the bin. A mineral taste lingered on my tongue. The mirrorless restroom was spartan but clean and, mercifully, didn’t stink. When I came back out, I heard it again—the screeching that preceded the blackout. It lasted shorter this time. Then a door opened and closed at the opposite end of the car. It must have been Czerny. I didn’t check.
I reached our door, the 5 6 7 8 9. Inside, the only light was from Whitman’s berth. Shesh snored like a lawnmower. Kagami was lying down half covered by the thin train sheet. I climbed to my berth.
I thought you’d need the light, she said.
Thank you.
I’ll try to sleep now. You can leave your light on, I don’t mind.
Sure.
I pressed the switch and bent the flexible arm to point down and reduce the halo. I tried to doze off but wasn’t sleepy. Survival instinct, maybe. Falling asleep is never easy for me, even alone. In this car with that whacko conductor around, impossible. And Whitman didn’t seem too crazy, but with mathematicians you never know.
I settled back and continued reading Lord Jim. In the third chapter Conrad wrote of passengers asleep on a ship:
‘the pilgrims of an exacting faith slept on mats, on blankets, on bare planks, on every deck, in all the dark corners, wrapped in dyed cloths, muffled in soiled rags, with their heads resting on small bundles, with their faces pressed to bent forearms: the men, the women, the children; the old with the young, the decrepit with the lusty—all equal before sleep, death’s brother.’
Didn’t soothe me.
I was still reading when the train braked hard and stopped. The book slid from my hands.
The car was still shaking when Whitman propped herself on an elbow, looking at me.
What happened? She scratched her eyes.
We just stopped.
No shit. Why?
I don’t know.
And where’s our rabbi?
What do you mean?
Well, he’s gone. She motioned towards his berth.
He couldn’t have left. I would’ve seen.
Well, he did.
Kagami turned his reading light on. He lifted his legs out of the bed stood up, peeking beneath my bed.
That’s right, mister Shesh is not here, he said.
I must have fallen asleep, I said.
Kagami bent down towards the empty berth.
This is strange, he said. Look.
Whitman peeked down. He fixed his bed?
Yes, Kagami said, the bedsheets are like nobody touched them.
We heard a crackled white noise. The loudspeakers. Then Wiktor Czerny’s voice.
Your attention, briefly. The train has ceased to move. There is no cause for alarm. Please do not attempt egress through the windows. That is not how salvation works.
Not worried at all, Whitman said.
I will go look for mister Shesh, Kagami said, putting his shoes on. He got out and closed the door behind him.
I jumped down to see by myself. The bedsheets were laid tight and cold. Nothing on the bed. I checked the storage compartment underneath. The black stone was there, and nothing else. I took it and placed it on his bed.
He couldn’t have forgotten that, I said. Must have left it on purpose.
A farewell gift? she said. She looked at the gemstone, squinting. What’s your name again?
Miles.
Seraphina.
I remembered that. Means angel in Hebrew, right?
Not exactly. Angels come in types. Seraphim are the angels on fire in the Torah. More badass than cherubs. I must have scared the rabbi.
He said something about angels before sleeping.
Unrelated. Those dudes aren’t seraphim. In dreamland you’d bump into malachim, or with Lailah if you’re lucky, maybe Metatron. Well that’s what the rabbis say.
You know that stuff.
I’ve read the classics. You’re talking to a Kabbalah girl.
Do you know why there’s a berth number 9 listed on the door?
Duh, that’s obvious.
I’m sorry?
Where’s the rabbi when we need him. Kabbalah again. Look, two times nine equals eighteen. One plus eight equals... nine. Three times nine equals twenty-seven. Two plus seven equals nine. And do you know how to say nine in Hebrew?
No?
Nine in Hebrew is ‘Miles.’
What?
Just fucking with you. I have no idea. Maybe the nine is bad luck around here. Anyway I don’t care, won’t take this train again.
Well for the return trip.
There’s no return trip.
Okay. So we’ve at least one thing in common.
Yeah. We’re in a goddamn stupid train.