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The Bishop of Saint GeorgeLeo Gher

Kellerman wondered, Would he be there today?

Ben always stewed about things on his Monday commute. He was a foreigner in Estonia

and had made only a few friends since his arrival six weeks earlier. Just then the speaker box of

the Number 9 rattled coarsely, “Katedraal Avenüü,” and the trolley came to a stop in front of

Saint George Basilica. It was where Kellerman caught the 15a, the bus that would take him to

Haabneeme-Tammneeme, the peninsula on the northern brink of the Baltic Sea. But he still had

twenty blocks and forty minutes to go before he could feel any warmth in his hands or feet. On

these frosty Tallinn mornings, he looked forward to the electric space heater in his office. If he

sat up close, he could warm up in about fifteen minutes. He'd thought it silly when his landlord,

Mrs. Kuusik, offered it, Such a small heater, what good could it possibly do?

Once he escaped the packed trolley, Ben felt a sense of relief. Following a few nervous

weeks of “finding his way,” Cathedral Square had become his signpost, only one more transfer,

and the 15a would take him straight to the University. After the trolley had passed by Ben had a

clear view of the Square and his fellow commuters setting out in every direction: babushkas off

to the market, children off to school, military recruits heading to shipyards, day workers lining

up outside the construction sites. Cater-corner from Saint George was “transfer central,” and

that’s where Ben caught the 15a. At the back edge of the sidewalk was a large Plexiglas shell,

built to protect travelers during inclement weather. But nobody used it. For most locals, it was a

place to be avoided because it had become the point of contact between drug dealers and their

Gher / The Bishop of Saint George / 2

customers, thugs and their victims. An outbreak of tuberculosis accompanied the illegal trades,

and just breathing the air there was believed to be harmful. Everyone called it the Turks' Arcade.

Still anxious, Ben thought, What if he’s not there?

Such supposing seemed like a waste of time, but the newly hired professor was a worrier.

What would happen if he missed the 15a? Hoping to avoid that possibility, Ben stepped off the

curb and headed quickstep across the Square to his bus stop. It was damn cold that mornin, and

again he agonized, What alternatives might be available should his 15a be out of service? Tall,

chiseled, and of steadfast German stock, Ben Kellerman was not normally so irrational, but he

was a foreigner in a faraway land, and his angst had grown worse as weeks turned into months.

As he approached the Arcade Ben could see people scattering. Like everyone else, Ben

hoped to avoid the grim images that were everywhere: the discarded syringes, rubber hoses,

plastic bottles, half-eaten garbage, and the bloodstained rags. He knew that if the foul imprints

got inside of his head, they would remain there throughout the day. It wasn’t the litter or the

smell that so bothered Ben, but the vagrant who could regularly be found there. Ben didn't know

the man, nor did he want to, and could barely understand his feelings about the poor soul. But

he'd nicknamed him. He called him Bishop – the Bishop of Saint George.

Kellerman was surprised when he spotted the Bishop. Somehow Ben had convinced

himself that he would be elsewhere today. But there he was, lying in a stupor amid whirling

wisps of litter, passed out on a little mound of dirt under the elder trees. He had built a sanctuary

– his “cathedral,” so to speak – and had covered his legs and feet with old newspapers to ward

off the cold. It was a pathetic sight, made worse because it seemed that he had soiled himself

during the night.


This Bishop, you see, was one of those homeless creatures that everybody tries to avoid.

Naturally, Ben felt guilty about always dodging the fellow, but each time he saw him at the bus

stop Ben argued, I cannot be late. Deep down he wanted to go over and poke around, just to see

if he was still breathing. But Ben never did. He found the moment awkward and embarrassing,

What would others think? So Ben, like the rest of the passersby, went on. It wasn't his business,

and he forced his mind to other matters, to his many responsibilities at the University that day.

Kellerman so wished for that damn bus – for once – to be on time. He twisted around to

search the 15a arrival route, Bremeni Boulevard, and in the far distance, he spotted a bus on the

way. As it came closer everyone was surprised, the 15a was early. A moment before, his fellow

15a-ers were spread out and nonchalantly checking their devices; the 15a was still ten minutes

away. But it was early, and they suddenly abandoned all personal spacing rules and were

mashing together into a tight queue where they expected the bus to come to a stop. They were

wrong by about five feet – right where Ben was standing. He congratulated himself for his

excellent choice of spots, but his self-satisfaction didn’t last long. The menacing queue was

worming its way into his position, and because Ben hadn't yet mastered the art of line bullying,

he was steadily edged to the back of the pack. He made it onto the bus, though, but was relegated

to standing-room-only for the rest of the 30-minute trip.

Once on board, Ben relaxed, and, not wanting to think about the vagrant anymore, turned

to explore the backdrop of the Baltic shore. As the 15a rumbled along next to the sea wall, Ben

fixed his mind on the icy waters and the ever-present sea geese drifting beside the rocky coast.

They seemed impervious to the chilly sea air, to the great gusts of wind and to humankind’s

clattering presence on the nearby shore. It was an uncertain time of year for many, when winter

lingered and hope felt remote and gray as the northern sky.


But Kellerman couldn’t let the images of ravaged lives go easily, and so he glanced back

at Cathedral Square one last time. It was not the Bishop that caught his eye but an oversized

black SUV, appearing from nowhere. It came to a skidding, skip-over-the-curb stop near the

back of the Arcade. Two men jumped out and began searching the grounds. They appeared out

of place, not Estonian at all. Decked out in jeans and bomber jackets, they were certainly not

rummaging for lost trinkets – they were hunting.

"Zaza Wolves," a voice from behind. Ben knew it, but he couldn't, in that instant, put a

face to it. "Everybody thinks they're Turks, but they're not." When he turned around Ben

recognized John Potts, a colleague from the CIU Business School.

"Professor Potts," Ben said. "Not Turks?"

Potts put it plainly, "No, just thugs from the Kurdish mafia."

"Kurdish mafia? Never heard of it." Ben began processing Eurasian geography. "Who are

those guys, and what are they doing in Estonia?"

"The old standbys: sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll."

Ben was baffled. "I have no idea what that means.” Potts was one of the prominent

international hires that Chancellor Losmann paraded around when politicians came calling.

Potts replied, "It means sex trafficking, drug dealing, and assassins for hire."

Ben understood the words but not their reality. His Catholic upbringing didn’t allow for

such sordid matters as sex trafficking. But today, the notion bothered him, and for some curious

reason, Ben thought of his vagrant and spun around to check the commons behind the Arcade –

the Zazas had found the Bishop’s sanctuary, but the man was gone.

#


Every morning about the same time that Ben stepped onto the 15a, Lorraine Peterson and

her husband, Karl, could be found in the CIU cafeteria warming up. After smearing her crusty

hard roll with strawberry preserves, “Raye” searched her husband's uninspired, eight-o'clock face

for conversation. "Ya know, I'm tired of being cooped up in that place we call an apartment,” she

said. “Let's go out for dinner tonight… to Old Town. What d’ya say there, Mr. Peterson?"

"Fine by me," he said, but his eyes never left the newspaper. An investigative reporter in

another life, Karl had some morning habits that were hard to break. Scouring newspapers for

bizarre happenings was his favorite. Brows furrowed and lips pursed she turned away in

exasperation. A moment later, Raye spotted the Dean of the Media College. "Ari," she called out.

Ari Shein was a legend in the Baltics. During Soviet times, he had been the main news

presenter on Estonian TV. In those days, he was handsome, stylish, and, secretly, a member of

the Eesti underground. When Marti Losmann applied for a government license to launch

Concordia International University, everyone understood that Ari would head up the Media

College.

This morning there was a stranger with the Dean, and everyone in the lunchroom was

gawking – a black man in Estonia was, to say the least, unexpected. "Good morning, Karl, Raye.

Another delightful Tallinn day, yes?" He wasn't kidding. For Estonians, any day when spring

winds fell short of gale force was a good day. Then, in his old anchorman's voice, Ari

announced, "This is John Douglas Daves. He has just hired our professor of religion." Ari's

English was barely useful and difficult to understand. He was regularly tongue-tied, and around

the office, his staff fondly called his malapropisms "the Dean's English."

It was the phrase "professor of religion" that made Karl Peterson's eyes light up. His

search for the bizarre was over, and he could barely contain his giddiness. Karl and Ari were


always at crossed swords, light entertainment for everyone at the College. "Religion at the

Losmann Country Club?" he asked.

Before Karl could respond Raye intervened, "Welcome to Concordia. I'm Lorraine

Peterson." Raye Peterson's graciousness was a perfect counterpunch to Karl's gruffness.

"Country Club?"

"Professor Daves, please pay lack attention to the cracking wise of your American

colleague. He makes the pot to stir." Ari then found a clever rejoinder, "Very soon, like it or not;

your name is on the front page of the Tallinn Daily. Scandal is his most tasty stew."

"OK, Shein, two questions," Karl nagged.

"Just two?" Ari responded. "The professor, a brain-freeze he has again?" This tit-for-tat

was always a prelude to a good story or two. "Okay, question two: I get no say on what courses

come to us. Old Commies do what they’re told. That's how the Marxisms educated us."

"And the answer to question one?"

"Why a professor of religion?" Ari anticipated.

"Yeah, the w-h-y of it, Comrade Shein."

Before Ari could answer, Raye noticed Ben and John Potts coming through the cafeteria

door. They were eager to get inside "the Muni," the old municipal building that housed the

University. The Muni was aged, boxy, and unheated. In Soviet times not turning on the furnace

in March was seen as a test of Russian manhood. "There's Ben," she announced.

"Who?" asked JD.

"Ben Kellerman. He teaches in the language program."

As Ben approached, Raye got up to make the introductions. "Ben, this is Professor

Daves. He'll be teaching religion in our College."


"Nice to meet you. Call me JD."

"To the question, Shein," Karl pressed on, "why religion at the Country Club?"

"Just business," said the Dean. "When government came to power, it built two university

authorizations, one public and other private." Ari paused to sip his coffee. "Marti understanded

that a private Lutheran university is licensed quick in our new, ‘officially’ Lutheran nation."

"Nothing to do with piety, then?" Karl had lost his poking stick.

"Right. No p-i-t-y, just business."

"Pi-ety, Ari, pi-ety," Karl growled, then, "Pity. That's funny."

Eager to change the subject, Raye cut in, "We’re going out for dinner tonight, to that

Russian restaurant. You know, Bistro Romanov in Old Town. You should all join us. Ari, you

will ask Nora, yes?" Karl had already buried his head in the newspaper once more, but the

others were paying attention. "We'll make it an expat get-together, everyone's invited," she said.

"Sounds like fun," JD replied. "What time?"

"Yes, Bistro Romanov," Ari was enthusiastic, "it has best kitchen. I will speak at Nora."

As the assembly got up to leave, JD asked Raye for directions. "Right, you're new to the

city. It would be best if you take a taxi. I'll write down the building and number."

"Thanks, Raye, very kind of you."

After she had given the address to Daves, Raye darted off to catch Karl. That's when a

swarm of students corralled the Dean. It was disrespectful to interrupt professors during the

“morning faculty meeting,” but now he was fair game.

"I'll walk you up," Ben said. "I have a question, Dr. Daves."

"Ask away."


"Your calling to religious studies... was it based on your beliefs, or just an academic

interest?"

"It’s JD," said Daves. "No, I'm not expressly religious. I study religion as a societal

phenomenon."

"No sacred inspiration, then?"

"No personal god, if that's what you mean."

The two men stopped at the top of the stairs. "I've read some of your papers. I was

particularly interested in your analysis of the decline of Christianity in Scandinavia."

"You read Nova Religio? That makes two of you – you and my mother. But I thought

you were a language specialist."

"Ari hired me to teach English to media students," Ben replied, "and I work cheap… just

a masters degree at the moment."

"Then what inspires you to read religious journals?"

"I'm a graduate student at Pontificia Università."

"The PUG?" JD was surprised. The PUG, as he called it, was the Harvard of Vatican

City. Pontificia students were recognized as the best religious scholars in Europe, and more than

forty popes had called it their alma mater. “So, you a seminarian or a scholar?”

Uncertain of Daves’ intent, Ben hesitated – he had posed the same question himself

recently – then replied, “I haven’t decided. Estonia is my time off to think about things.”

"So tell me,” Daves asked, “have the trials begun?" In recent years both the PUG and the

Vatican had been rocked by sex scandals.


Ben hung back for a second time, "I'm not privy to such things. I’m just a student, a

novice, trying to understand something about my faith. You know: what's true; what's sacred;

where can one find clarity in the world?"

"Well, Ben, if you find something sacred here in Tallinn, let me know. We’ll do a paper

together." JD didn't press the issue. But as they departed he beamed at the possibilities; sex and

religion were Daves favorite topics.

#

"Name?"

Annoyed by the man's apparent lack of attention, the jailhouse clerk snapped, "What is

your name?" She thought him drug-addled or thickheaded; she viewed him suspiciously. He was

clearly not Estonian. His black hair was not from any known Scandinavian gene pool. What's

more, he dressed absurdly. He wore a T-shirt that swallowed his slender frame, gray sweatpants,

and a worn-out pair of red loafers, but no socks. He had slicked back his hair and was carrying a

towel. “I am Dion," he said.

"Surname," she asked. "What is your last name?" The District 9 vagrancy unit had

dumped him off at the station earlier. It was likely that he had had nothing to eat for quite some

time, or maybe he was dehydrated. So the officer changed her tactics, "Tell me your family

name." She even forced a smile. "It's just for the record."

She wanted a name, any name, so he gave her one. "Drakos. D-r-a," he paused, then

gathered himself, "k-o-s." Dion had just finished his shower. Near the exit, there were metal

benches with towels neatly placed at each end, and spread out across pull-down counters were

toiletries in plastic bags and piles of donated clothes. That's where Dion had found the T-shirt,


the sweatpants, and the red loafers. The clerk reasoned they must have been the last pair of shoes

from the pile – only a very vain man or a very poor man could bear the mantle of such a color.

"Sign here." The woman handed Drakos a clipboard. Before the D-9 "guests" were

released, each had to verify his or her existence, and then they received a meal voucher. As Dion

suspected, this clerk didn't care if his answer was real or not, so he signed the form and received

a meal ticket. Once on the street, Dion took a long breath before stepping off the curb. He needed

to find a nearby soup kitchen; his belly was howling. He required food – or more wine – to quell

the pangs and tremors that were sure to come. As he walked away, Dion was unaware of the two

men in the black SUV at the end of the block. As a rule, these Zaza thugs wouldn't have had a

second thought about grabbing their “earner” off the street. But this was in clear sight of the D-9

station, so they knew they would have to find a better place to do the snatching.

#

It was almost dark when Dion left the Saint Nicholas Shelter. Daylight was fading, time

for Tallinn's night people to crawl out of their hidey-holes. Another vagrant followed Dion from

the Shelter, but that one went a separate way and then disappeared into the wispy fog that was

settling along the alleyways. Most of the shops had closed, and the knick-knack peddlers had

abandoned their corners. Dion had decided to return to his Arcade sanctuary. Even his derelict

friends thought it was disgusting there, but the young man didn't care. The refuge under the elder

trees was his, and his alone. Intensely, he studied both ends of the street, searching for the black

SUV. It was clear for now.

The thugs cornered him at the crosswalk just before he reached the Arcade. He was

startled at first and fell backward, knocking aside the pull-cart of a babushka passing by. He


offered little resistance, knowing he was no match for the Zazas’ strong-arm tactics. "Vasiliou,"

the headman howled, "the lamb who has gone missing."

The old woman, who had been slammed to the ground, realized what was happening. She

recognized the terror on Dion's face, the panic in his eyes, but she did nothing. She chose not to

see the violence and slipped away into the darkness. Then the car drove off with Dion inside…

unhurried, as if what had just happened was a normal occurrence on any Tallinn street. Others

saw the snatching as well. But it wasn't their business, and none were willing to speak up, let

alone intercede. They knew these brutes and their dirty trade, and it was dangerous to interfere.

The drug dealers took Dion to their safe house on Püha Street, just a few blocks from

Cathedral Square. They dragged him upstairs and threw him on the couch. Next, the headman

began chiding, "Vasiliou, where are the nice clothes I bought you?" But Dion was unresponsive.

His eyes had turned dull, his body limp. "Where did you get these rags? They're offensive."

Afterward, the headman ripped off the T-shirt that Dion had so carefully chosen. "You cannot

work in rags, Dion Vasiliou. No one wants to fuck a man who wears rags!"

The taller Zaza – the one who did the driving, the brute – had slipped out of the living

room into the back of the apartment. He was gone only a moment, and when he returned he

carried a hypodermic syringe. It was one-third full of a seductive, milky white liquid, and when

Dion saw it, he began squirming. The brute handed off the syringe, walked over to Dion and

grabbed him from behind. The fragile Dion sought to pull away, but he had little strength to fight

back. The other one struck Dion across the face violently. At that point, Dion recognized that

resistance would just mean more torment, so he became submissive.

"Be still, Dion." As he did the brute released his grip. "And take off those silly red

shoes," the boss Zaza demanded. Face reddening, eyes swelling, Dion braced for the coming


pain. Neither of these clods had any skill with a needle, nor were they interested in making life

easy for the sex worker they controlled and enjoyed bullying. "Which foot did we use last time?"

Dion pointed to his right. "Give me the other. We don't want to leave any scars, do we?" Dion's

leg began to tremble as the man inserted the needle into the fleshiness of his big toe just under

the toenail. There the puncture wound would be hidden; police inspected arms, legs, and the

stomach, but seldom looked at a vagrant's feet. It took no time for the plunger to empty, and once

withdrawn, Dion's toe began to bleed. "Get a towel," shouted the headman, "he's going to ruin

my couch… and bring some ice."

Dion would lose consciousness soon. In the next hour or so, he wouldn't have to face the

tormented reality that had become his life. As the drug took over, Dion slipped into a half-

conscious state. Grim thoughts about how he might die faded in and out – perhaps the heroin

would stop his heart, or maybe he would bleed to death, or maybe the lack of fluids might drive

his blood pressure below the point of recovery. Or possibly, one of the Zazas would slash open

his chest – just for fun, for the lurid fascination of watching a trembling heart fade away. "Oh,

God, let it be," Dion moaned. But no, he would dream for a while… until they woke him once

more to resume the work that had become his profession.

#

It was late afternoon, and the halls of the Muni had emptied. Because the weather had

turned pleasant, everyone wanted to leave – Old Town festivities were calling. Professor Daves,

however, had been summoned to the CIU business office to sign his employment contract.

"I have a question about tonight," JD said.

"Yes, a question?"


"How does one dress for the Bistro? I mean… everyone in Old Town seems to be

wearing a costume."

Ari understood, "Yes, it's because of carnival." In recent days, everyone in Old Town was

sporting goat tails or bull's horns or some other kitschy pagan frill from ancient times. "It's not a

mask-parade party," Ari explained, "so wear what likes you. It’s for fun, like Mardi Gras." JD

recognized Ari's word for masquerade. He was finally getting used to the Dean's English.

"Maarja comes now," said Ari. The University’s business manager had just entered the Dean's

office with a stack of papers. She placed the documents on the desk for JD to read. But he didn't

bother, just signed them as instructed.

JD handed back the papers, "Thanks, Ari." With that, they all made tracks for home.

#

By seven o'clock that evening Old Town was humming, and at the center of everything

was Bistro Romanov. Its owner, Viktor Rus, had provided a storefront headquarters for the

Festival. Not surprisingly, it was next to his restaurant, and business was booming. When the

Petersons arrived a half hour later, even Karl was in a good mood. At the moment both were

seated at the Bistro’s cocktail lounge waiting for the others. Karl was enjoying the show. There

was a parade of female servers, dressed as water nymphs passing back and forth.

Raye said, "Do you think the priest will be offended by the waitresses?" Just then, an

exceptionally buxom waitress was escorting three Russian men back to the dining area. "What

they're wearing, I mean? They're very skimpy."

“Daves is not a priest, Lorraine." Raye had naturally assumed that their professor of

religion was clergy. Like Ben, she'd been raised Catholic and priests in that tradition had always

taught dogma and theology.


"So what do we call him?" Raye complained.

Karl didn't get a chance to answer; the Sheins had arrived. "Ari, Nora, Shalom Aleichem."

From behind the bar, Rus called out to his friends. "Welcome to Romanov’s."

"The hand is empty, Viktor." Ari held out an imaginary glass and shook it in the air

cantankerously as if he'd been expecting someone for some time to the pour the wine.

The door opened again, and Raye beckoned, "Over here, Dr. Daves."

Rus set out five tall liqueur glasses and began pouring a dark brown, rum-based liqueur

known as Vana Tallinn. Karl warned, "It's the Hammer and Sickle, Daves. Gird your loins."

JD turned to Raye, "Hammer and Sickle?" She was the explainer of all things Estonian.

"It's an inexcusably risky cocktail." Raising an eyebrow and glaring, Raye made it clear

to her husband, "A person should never have more than one."

Karl added, "The saying goes: it knocks you in the head and then slices off your legs. It’s

Russian, of course, very tasty and very intoxicating."

Ari lifted his glass and roared, "L'chaim."

Just as they were taking their first sip, Ben arrived, "You started without me."

In unison, "L'chaim," they countered.

"We're warming up with the Hammer and Sickle, Monsignor Kellerman," said Karl. Ben

knew what Viktor Rus would be serving. Neither Viktor nor Ari ever missed a chance to ply

others with their favorite cocktail. After finishing the round, Rus escorted them to a private

dining room.

"So Ben, what’s it to be,” JD was eager to get a good discussion going, “sex, religion, or

who's getting the boot from the Holy See?"

"Holy See?" Nora was puzzled.


Ari was quick to reply, "Pope is Holy See, Nora."

Before any of the others could add to the small talk, Artur and second server arrived with

a platter of appetizers and six bottles of Saku Beer. "Artur, tell us what's good tonight," Raye

said.

"All is good, Madame," he replied, "but Shashlyk is special, a Romanov kitchen delight."

As Ari spoke to the Artur on the side, JD had a go at answering Nora’s question, "The

Pope is often called the Holy See, but strictly speaking, the Holy See is the Bishop of Rome."

Bishop of Rome, Ben’s thoughts turned from lively dinner conversation to his man at the

Arcade. Why didn’t I check on him today?

His head reeling from the idle chitchat, Karl interrupted, "Nobody cares about the Holy

See. We want gossip, man. We want scandal!" It made Ben squirm, and that pleased Peterson.

"He's just digging in for more of weird and wacky," sneered Ari.

Just as the tête-à-tête was heating up, Artur and others began serving the shish kebabs. As

Nora had guessed, Ari had ordered Shashlyk for the table.

Not wanting more of the weird and wacky Raye said, "So, Dr. Daves, tell us about your

research." JD grinned. No academic can resist a chance to talk about his research, and Ben was

grateful for Raye’s skillful maneuver away from Catholic institutions and sexual perversions.

"My work is about Jesus, the man, not Jesus the G-O-D," he said casually. "I don't do

theology. I'm a sociologist, and we ask a different question."

"And that question?" Karl sniped.

"It centers on the Nazarene's deeds," He continued. "I study the men called Zealots and

the Jewish Culture Wars of the first century."


"Dr. Daves comes to Temple next week,” Ari announced. “He tells us about Sadducees,

Pharisees, Essenes, and the Zealots."

JD went on, "We academics see religious institutions for what they are: enterprises about

god or gods… small 'g.'"

"But what about Jesus?" Ben insisted. "What significance does he hold in the grand

scheme of sociology and anthropology?"

Karl chimed in, "We're all searching for significance, Ben. It's just that some of us don't

call it God."

"Jesus was just a product of his time," JD said. "If we could step back into his world, I

suspect we'd find someone like Malcolm X battling away against the powers that be."

"Pharisees resisting Sanhedrin," Ari added, "like brave Eesti facing criminal Soviets."

Then it was Karl’s turn to change course. He posed the question – the one all wanted to

know, but were too embarrassed to ask, “What about you, Kellerman? What’s it going to be…

scholar or seminarian?”

“He hasn’t made that choice,” said Raye. “Leave him alone, Karl.”

But the unabashed, old reporter persisted, “Then scholar it is.”

“It is not my passion,” Ben replied.

There was an awkward pause in the conversation, and then Daves reflected, “Scholarship

without passion, the way of the dull abstract world… But you’d be just like the rest of us, Ben,

waiting for something – anything – to happen.”

That’s when Artur and his fellow waiters broke the uncomfortable exchange with

desserts: individual servings of rhubarb pie and the famous Baltic pastry, kringel. Then Ari told


the story of his pirate radio station, and how the Eesti underground had booted the Soviets out of

Estonia once and for all. The dinner went on for hours – it was a delightful evening for all.

#

A week later, when most of his friends had gone to Helsinki for a Sibelius concert, Ben

had decided to stay in Tallinn so he could think about things. He had decisions to make before

returning to Rome. But tonight he was ready to take in the sights and sounds of the New Age

Festival one last time. At the very least he could have a light dinner, stroll down the Old Town

streets, and window-shop among the craft peddlers.

When he arrived at Cathedral Square, it was jam-packed. Sidewalk merchants and food

vendors were everywhere, and carnival barkers were calling out to high-spirited youths to

"Come, play my game." or "Come, ride my roller coaster." Poeg's Plunge and Tõll's Twist were

the favorites. It was about 9:30 when Kellerman knew he'd had enough. To his surprise, many

festivalgoers had the same idea at the same time. On the other side of the guard tower exit, there

was a backup at the trolley stop. Ben realized it would be some time before he could find space

on the Number 9. There was a food kiosk nearby, so he decided to buy croissants for his morning

breakfast. "Croissants, palun," he said.

"Kolm dolars." The vendor assumed that Ben was a tourist, someone he could gouge.

"No, too much. Liiga palju." Ben offered a one Euro coin and the vendor took it.

Because he could see that the crowd was not dispersing any time soon, Ben decided to

walk to the next trolley stop, the Arcade stop. It took him about 15 minutes and just as it came

into view, he noticed something unusual. At first, Ben thought it just a shadow. But he couldn't

tell for sure because of pillars and numerous homemade posters. As he neared, Ben realized that


it was a man, but he wasn't exactly standing. Disheveled and raggedy, he was leaning against the

pillars and holding on for dear life. Ben guessed one more homeless Tallinn drunk.

Walking just ahead of Ben were two gray-cassocked novices. They were busy talking and

didn't see the shadowy figure until he fell forward. They jumped away clumsily. Noticing the

commotion Ben chose to hang back. He opened the bottle of water he'd brought from home and

took a few sips. Meanwhile, the novices, having dodged the whirling pestilence, disappeared

down the now oddly quiet boulevard.

The shadow-man began staggering about, trying to catch onto something that would

prevent a nasty nosedive into the sidewalk. Kellerman was curious – would he hold on, or would

he fall? As the man stumbled into the light under the street lamp, Ben recognized him. It was his

Bishop, and the repulsion he felt only a moment ago turned to pity. When the man began

coughing, then gagging, Ben was startled and, once again, indecisive. "If no one were around, I

would…" he muttered, but the bile forming along the sides of his tongue indicated otherwise.

"Surely a fellow Estonian will offer a helping hand?" But no, the others had already hurried past.

It wasn't their business.

Clang-clang-clang. The sound of steel against steel came grindingly to a halt. It was the

Number 9 and filled quickly as Ben watched. Then it vanished. Ben frowned at the darkness

where the trolley had just disappeared. There was stillness all around, and Ben felt abandoned. It

was just Ben and the Bishop now. Just an instant before, kids were playing in the park, and down

the expanse of Bremeni Boulevard, there were no cars, or buses, or taxis – all empty. It was

unsettling. It was as if a Heavenly voice were nagging, Do something!

It was a body’s thud against concrete that broke the spell. The man had fallen and was

now struggling on the sidewalk. On his knees as a pilgrim, the drunk was trying to crawl back


into the shelter. But as he dragged himself along, his bulky sweatpants were being pulled

downward and off, exposing his nakedness from knees to waist.

Finding his mettle, at last, Kellerman rushed over, but the man had now collapsed into a

fetal position, twitching visibly, and then he began vomiting. Seizure, a panicked Ben Kellerman

thought. He tried to help the Bishop to his feet, but everything was tangled. He reached down to

where the pants had become ensnared, but there was nothing he could do until he removed the

man’s shoes. He reached down, pulled them off, and then tossed them aside. Next, he grabbed at

the man’s waistband and tugged upwards – for the moment the Bishop was clothed again.

That's when the man started drooling – spittle dribbled onto Ben's chin, neck, and shirt.

The Bishop was bony and frail, so much so that Ben had no trouble dragging him back into the

shelter. And because there was no place to sit, Ben simply held the man until he stopped shaking.

The Bishop’s face was flush, filthy and covered with snot, and so, with his coat sleeve, Ben

gently wiped clean a remarkably innocent face. After a few minutes, the man stopped quaking

and began easing back to cognizance. He was groggy, but his eyes became fixed on Ben. He

said, "Father?"

Amused, Ben shook his head, "No, just a friend… sõbra, sõbra."

Then the Bishop began speaking bizarrely, "Hide your face from my sins, and blot out all

my wickedness." Ben assumed the man was just now waking up from a potent drug binge and

was still addlebrained. He lifted a hand towards Ben's face, "Create in me a clean heart."

"What is your name?" Ben asked. Ben grinned sheepishly and knew for certain that all

the old Estonian gods were mocking him for the second time. "Tell me your name?"

“I am Dion – I am the sacrifice of God, a troubled spirit.”


Ben could see that this Dion was in critical condition. He needed nourishment, The

croissants! Ben propped Dion up against the casing of the shelter. "Here, my friend. Eat…

sööma." He worried that the croissant might be difficult for the malnourished vagrant to

swallow, but it was all he had. Dion took one small bite. It wasn't easy, so Ben took out his water

bottle and gently held the man's head back so he could drink. As the moment lingered, Ben

realized that he had offered up the sacred words of consecration. When Dion had finished

drinking, he nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging a stranger's kindness.

"So you are the Second Coming?" Ben quipped. "If that is the truth, then, my friend, we

are a world in much need of saving." As he was talking Ben saw that the man was trying to speak

once more.

In a voice barely perceptible, he said, "I have come back many times, but you have

always denied me." The words were clear, but Ben was confused. He assumed drug toxicity

again, and that it was just about to overwhelm this poor man – body, mind, and soul.

“Thank you.” There was no sound to the words; his eyes said everything. That’s when

Kellerman knew the vagrant he'd first observed in the refuge under the elder trees had found a

measure of peace. With that, Dion closed his eyes and died.

What finally broke the silence was the click-clack of a car door opening. Ben turned

around to see the headman of the Zazas. "What have you done to my Dion Vasiliou?"

Ben was startled. "Who are you?"

But the stranger said nothing. The brute emerged from the car, walked to the back of the

Arcade, picked up Dion thinking he was merely in a stupor, and carried him away. With a wave

of his hand, the Zaza warned off Ben from further action, “I am no one you should want to


know.” As the car moved off, Ben stood alone, dumbfounded and speechless. It was as if the

events of the past few minutes had never taken place.

Then to his complete surprise, the festivalgoers reappeared; all headed for home as

before. Everything was as it had been, except for the Bishop's tattered and torn, red shoes. They

remained in the far corner of the shelter, where Ben had tossed them. That’s when Kellerman

made a decision. He walked over to the shoes, picked them up, and then stuffed them into his

coat pocket.

Clang-clang-clang.

The sound of the Number 9 bell had broken the silence. But there was no rush now, so

Ben strolled over to the stop, stepped on, and took a seat at the rear of the carriage. As the trolley

got under way, Ben turned back to the Arcade. His eyes lingered there for some time as it grew

smaller and smaller in the distance. After that, he finished the croissant and what was left of the

water.

THE END

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