“I encouraged Nathan to follow his conscience. I told him that was the truest voice of God within him. I think I had some influence over him. But believe me, I never dreamed he would take matters into his own hands—if that’s what he did.”
“Do you know where we can find Nathan Cohen?” Ritchie asked.
Rachel opened her purse and took out a slip of paper. “Here is his address, and his rabbi’s address. That’s all I know, all I can do for you. Oh, one thing more. Nathan is very fond of chess. He took me to a chess club once. I don’t remember where it was. Midtown? Downtown? It was very nice.”
Nathan wasn’t at the Marshall, but they found him at the Manhattan Chess Club on West 9th Street in Greenwich Village. The director pointed him out—he was the tall, skinny, pale, dark-haired young man hunched behind a Nimzoindian defense on board 1. The Hungarian grandmaster, Emil Bobul, was playing white. Bobul had dropped in for a casual game, but it had become a hard-fought contest. Nathan was bent over the board, one hand propping his jaw, the other hand touching the chess clock.
After a while Nathan looked up, recognized Grelich, thought for a minute, pursed his lips, shook his head and leaned over and whispered something to Bobul. Bobul shook his head. Nathan murmured something else. Bobul shrugged. Nathan turned down his king, got up, and walked over to Grelich.
“Mr. Grelich,” he said, “I believe I owe you an explanation.”
“If you would be so kind,” Grelich said.
Over coffee in a nearby coffee shop, Nathan tried to explain why he had aborted the operation.
“I knew I shouldn’t do anything to screw this up,” Nathan said, referring to the transfer operation. “Suicide and body-transfer are legal, you don’t fool around with government-sanctioned procedures. I transferred Mr. Castleman without moral difficulty. If Grelich wanted to share his body with Castleman, it was no skin off my nose. But when it came time to turn Grelich off—to shatter his electro-chemical connections—assign him to death—well, I hesitated. My hesitation turned into a long delay. And finally I just walked out of there. I reminded myself that I took this job to turn the dials and press the buttons. But now it was getting too personal. They want me to play executioner. Consciously, that is. That was too much. I got out of there.”
It was after eleven at night when Grelich and Ritchie got back to Ritchie’s apartment. They stopped for dinner first at an Irish bar nearby. Despite Grelich’s vegetarianism, he made no objection when Ritchie ordered a corned beef sandwich, home fries, a small green salad, and a pint of Killian’s Red.
“I hope you don’t object to this,” Ritchie said, gesturing with his sandwich.
“Why should I object? I sold you my body. If you want to fill it with
“Another beer?”
“Suit yourself.”
Ritchie didn’t order another. He was afraid he’d be going to the bathroom all right. He had been wondering about how the night would go. Last night had been easy, he’d been exhausted. But tonight? It was like the first time. He felt uncomfortable, having to sleep with Grelich, even though there was just one body involved. Would he be able to sleep at all? Last night he had been exhausted and in shock. But tonight? He hoped the body would sleep when it was ready.
But whose body was it? Did this body even know which mind it belonged to? Had the body itself—neither Castleman nor Grelich, but a representative of the body only—had this body witnessed the change of title?
At the apartment, Grelich took a shower, then found a set of Ritchie’s pajamas, and undressed and put them on. Without discussing it with Ritchie, he lay down on the bed, turned off the bedside lamp, tucked his arm under the pillow, and fell asleep.
Ritchie lay there, uncomfortable, wide-awake, watching lights and shadows cross the ceiling from cars in the street far below.
He tried to resign himself to a sleepless night. He watched the play of light and shadow across the ceiling —a weaving, hypnotic pattern. He felt miserable that he didn’t have a body of his own, so that he could get up, fix himself a sandwich, watch some television, or play a game on his computer. Instead, with Grelich in control of the body, he had to lie here maybe all night watching the lights on the ceiling. He couldn’t even get up and fix himself a drink. He’d have to talk to Grelich about that, if this situation went on much longer. Which he fervently hoped it would not... How could he sleep in an unfamiliar body, sharing his headspace with a man he scarcely knew? Given the circumstances, anyone would have insomnia. So thinking, he fell asleep.
He began to dream. In his dream he was walking down a long dark corridor toward a closed door with light coming from under it.
The door swung open. Ritchie walked in.
He was in a small, dark room. The ceiling slanted down. It seemed to be an attic room. In front of him was a plain wooden table. On it was a lighted candle in a pewter holder.
Behind the table, at the end of the room, he could see a tall window. It had no shade or curtain, and through the glass Ritchie could see the darkness of a city night, a darker shade than the darkness in the room.
Now he made out the middle distance. There were two men seated behind the table facing him. The one to his right, near the end of the table, wore dark, shapeless clothes, and had a
The other man was also old, but he was large and hearty looking. He wore dark clothes, a black beaver hat, and black horn-rimmed glasses. He had a sort of shawl thrown over his shoulders. He had a white beard that came down to his mid-chest.
He looked up when Ritchie entered the room. “So come in. It’s time, already. Did you bring the
The skinny man said, “I have it, rabbi.” Turning to Ritchie, he said, “I am the scribe. It’s customary for the plaintiff to bring his own writing instruments and parchment. But in this modern age of ours, who’s got? So I make you a gift of my pen and parchment. Maybe you’ll be good enough to loan them to me so I can make out the document?”
“Yeah, sure, OK,” Ritchie said, not sure what was going on.
The rabbi said, “You’re not Jewish yourself, are you, Mr. Castleman?”
“No, I’m not,” Ritchie said. The rabbi didn’t give him any particular look, but Ritchie felt it was somehow not OK for him not to be Jewish. He restrained himself from apologizing.
“Let’s get on with the ceremony,” the rabbi said. He coughed and cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention that you wish to be separated from Moses Grelich, your mind mate. If this is so, please state it.”
“You got it,” Ritchie said. “I wish to be separated from Moses Grelich.”
The rabbi picked up a little memorandum pad, opened it and indicated that Ritchie should repeat after him. “Moses Grelich sold me his body, to be my exclusive possession. A medical ceremony was made, but I didn’t get the unencumbered body. When I got in, Grelich was still there. Despite this breach in the arrangement, I let him reside in the body with me while he made other arrangements. It is now time for him to vacate.”
After Ritchie had finished saying the words, he could hear the dry scratching of the scribe’s pen on the parchment.
“Therefore,” the rabbi said, “I, Rabbi Schmuel Shakovsky, empowered by the civil law of this state and by my congregation, do demand that you, Moses Grelich, tell us you are here.”
“I’m here, rabbi,” Grelich said. “But you know I’ve never been a believer. I don’t even believe in God.”
“You are not bound by God. You are bound by tradition.”
“I accept that, rabbi. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“On my command you will vacate your body, which, by your own assertion and willful act, is no longer yours.”
“I was in a weird mood when I made the agreement,” Grelich said. “Life had been a disappointment. But this half-life isn’t exactly paradise, either.”
Rabbi Shakovsky said, “I will now sign my name to this document. When the last stroke of my name has
