Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 58

To be clear, few citizens of Golden actually knew Theo.

His local fame was confined to the downtown district, though the driver of bus number 37 and members of the hospital staff had their own stories to tell about the good-natured visitor. The wider community learned about him after his death, through newspaper and television stories, social media, and gossip. Goldenites were surprised and curious that such a man had selected their town for his residence and had dwelt so quietly in their midst.

How could someone of such renown — and why would someone of such renown — choose their city? And how did he escape their notice? How, in a world where every hand holds a camera, could he achieve anonymity for an entire year?

Among those who knew him, even those who knew him merely as a cheerful presence along Broadway, he was remembered not as a celebrated artist or collector but as an acquaintance, neighbor, and friend. On sidewalks up and down the Promenade, people shared stories and reminiscences of Theo’s year in Golden. From those fragments, they constructed an image that was nothing short of mythic.

Those who knew him best held their peace and declined to be interviewed or drawn into the mob of the carelessly inquisitive. Even Katherine Lesker, whose journalistic instinct was to write, kept her silence in reverence for Theo’s memory and out of respect for the promise she had made to him at the Fedder, a promise from which she was now most certainly freed .

There were, not surprisingly, insistent, professional writers — bloggers, art aficionados, reporters from New York papers and magazines, an international journalist or two, and even, early on, a documentary filmmaker — who pursued whatever rumor or lead they could find in hopes of telling Theo’s story. Eventually, perhaps, they would pierce the inner ring of his friends and get the details for which they yearned, but in the immediate aftermath of Theo’s death, silence reigned.

More than one reporter tried to approach Ellen while she was a patient at the hospital following the attack. When Tony, who rarely left her side during the week and a half she was there, learned of their intrusion from Mrs. Van Blarcum, he searched them out, dressed them down with an eruption of curses, and swore to invoke every means, legal and not so, to protect the woman.

And “hell no, I won’t talk to you! Get your ink-wasting ass out of here.”

In time, he might soften, but not yet. He kept a close eye on Ellen.

As Theo would have wished.

Members of the press were pleased, accordingly, to learn that a memorial service had been planned for Theo at St. James. Perhaps there, they would be able to harvest information for an interesting story with anecdotes and reminiscences. In all fairness, people around the world, for good reason, wanted to know about the famed artist’s death.

Theo’s body had already been flown to France and buried beside his daughter’s in a private ceremony near Paris. Mr. Ponder had worked and would continue to work with Theo’s lawyers and business associates on a number of estate matters, including the funeral. But he did not, and would not ever, violate Theo’s confidence, though he, as much as anyone, was convinced of the world’s need to know Theo’s story.

On the evening of the memorial for Theo — two weeks after his fall, at seven o’clock on a Thursday, the precise hour of so many of his bestowals — the sanctuary at St. James was filled to overflowing. Many members of the church, ones who had seen him regularly on Sunday mornings, were in attendance. Business owners, students, waiters and waitresses, the homeless, and the merely inquisitive filled the pews.

By an arrangement that had somehow been made and communicated to the affected parties, everyone who had received a portrait from Theo was invited, as if they were family, to sit in the front rows. Some brought their portraits with them. A handful of others who had not yet received a portrait — Shep, Tony, Mr. Ponder, Lamisha, Mrs. Van Blarcum — were also placed front and center. Ellen, by special dispensation, was allowed to bring her bicycle to the front of the sanctuary and park it beside the pew. She was still feeble, bruised, and bandaged from the incident at the Fedder. Many were surprised that she was well enough to attend.

But even in her delicate state, and even in the company of her Noble Invention, she exuded a tender dignity as she joined the procession of the portrait people.

A sign at the entrance of the church building, politely worded but clear in its stern intent, instructed members of the press, local and not, to respect those in attendance and to remain at the back of the sanctuary.

And to all, press and friends alike, a notice was prominently posted:

In honor of this sacred place and today’s memorial, we ask that there be no photography or recording of the service. Before entering the sanctuary, please turn off all cell phones, recording devices, and cameras, and place them out of sight. Violators will be removed from the service.

As if to emphasize the sincerity of the warning, the church had retained and stationed uniformed policemen at the entrance and in the building’s vestibule.

Everyone was a bit surprised and pleased (at least most were) that for over an hour, no phones rang, no cameras clicked, and no other sign of technological trespass occurred. A sense of solemnity prevailed throughout the service.

While people entered the building, the organist played a soft, seamless medley of hymns. A reverent hush was observed by the congregation, even among the writers and reporters in the back of the room.

The radiance of the evening sun through stained glass dappled the sanctuary. The slow movement of color would have been undetectable from minute to minute, but over the course of the hour, patches of red, lavender, melon, gold, and emerald shifted kaleidoscopically across the room.

The sun was a brush; the west window its palette; the floor, walls, ceiling, and congregants its canvas; an angel somewhere, the artist.

The tulip gardens of Holland would have blushed in the presence of such sublime color and light. The effect of filtered rays, muted tints, and deepening shadows was perfectly suited to the occasion commemorating an old artist.

Lamisha, the youngest member of the congregation and weepy with feelings too complex for her vocabulary, was aware enough of her surroundings to notice the swaths of color as they crept subtly across the sanctuary.

She wondered if the colors from the windows, set free like the notes of music from Simone’s cello, would hide in the chandeliers and curtains and rafters until late at night when the room was dark and silent. Did they, too, like those quarter and eighth and sixteenth notes at the Bet, reappear for festivities after midnight? Is that what the preacher meant when he spoke of resurrection?

If Theo were there, he would have been able to tell her .

A large bouquet of hydrangeas and roses had been placed in front of the pulpit where a casket might ordinarily have been situated. Next to the flowers, a portrait of Theo, drawn by Asher and placed on a paint-stained easel, fixed its gaze on the congregation. In it, Theo’s closed mouth smiled broadly, and his eyes glistened. To those in the front rows, Asher’s mastery as an artist and Theo’s mastery as a man fully-alive were movingly apparent.

At precisely seven o’clock, the last notes of the organ receded into silence, and Father Lundy walked to the pulpit. He paused, studied the assembled mourners, and finally settled his eyes on those nearest him. In a tone almost conversational — strong and precise and warm — he spoke.

“To everyone else, he was Zila the famous. To us, he was Theo the familiar.

“To everyone else, he was Zila the wealthy. To us, he was Theo the generous.

“To some, he is Zila the headline. To us, he is Theo the friend.

“To some, he is Zila the preyed upon. To us, he is Theo the prayed for.

“To some, he was Zila the mysterious recluse. To us,” Father Lundy looked at the first rows, at Ellen, Kendrick, and at Tony’s tear-filled eyes, “to us, he will always be the face of heaven.

“We honor him today. And we grieve, but not — to quote the Apostle Paul — as those who have no hope. Didn’t Theo speak often of heaven, with an unmistakable longing in his voice and with a clear conviction of its reality and beauty?”

Heads nodded.

“In Theo’s honor, and in keeping with the hope that expressed itself so radiantly in his life, I read these words of promise from Another, a far greater One who lived obscurely among His neighbors long ago, an Artist Himself, the One who, for Theo, defined life and love and goodness. The One who alone makes us good and wise and happy.”

Father Lundy read from the gospels of Matthew and John and then, in recognition of Theo’s love for water, both moving and still, the twenty-third Psalm.

Father Lundy let the words hang over the room before offering an extemporaneous prayer: thankful, thoughtful, honest, and eloquent.

“. . . And if it is true that ‘begging is our only wisdom,’ then we beg, dear Lord, that this man’s presence in our lives will not have been in vain but instead that we will perpetuate the obedient faith, the cheerful hope, and the generous love that he made so beautifully visible while he was here among us. Might the light of his countenance, how he loved, and who he loved, inspire us to follow him, even as he followed the Christ, in whose name we pray. Amen.”

When those in the congregation opened their eyes and raised their heads, Professor Gobelli was sitting before them, to the right of the pulpit.

With graceful and balletic precision of movement, he raised his left hand to the neck of the cello, positioned the bow over the strings with his right, took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, tilted his head slightly, and began to play a mournful rendition of “Fado for Theo.”

Simone, face still bruised and hand still bandaged, listened intently to the tribute he had written for his erstwhile benefactor. He could never have imagined, when he wrote the piece, that it would become a requiem. If he had been able to play the piece himself — would that day ever come? — he would have done so. For now, the strange providence of his injury allowed him, instead, to weep at the beauty of what he had written and to hear his mentor bring the notes to life.

Professor Gobelli played the piece slowly, with a pathos that only a master could coax from wood and strings. The cello groaned, sighed, sobbed, prayed, pleaded, and finally rested.

Theo would have been pleased.

When the last note of the fado faded into silence, Professor Gobelli lifted the bow from the strings, laid his head on the cello’s neck, and sat motionless for a spell of seconds, as if paralyzed by the power of the moment. He wiped his eyes, stood, and left the platform as Father Lundy returned to the pulpit.

“Some of you,” Father Lundy nodded to the front rows, “are much more qualified than I to offer a eulogy for Theo. At your request, I am honored to speak on your behalf and to share some thoughts on the life we celebrate here this evening. I do hope, in days to come, in whatever time and way seem appropriate to you, you will share your own stories about this wonderful man, this mysterious stranger who so quickly and deeply won our hearts.

“We have just recently passed through the Easter season in which themes of darkness and light, death and resurrection, despair and hope, fear and faith, and grief and joy have all been set before us.

“As I have reflected on Theo’s life these past few days, one scene from the record of Christ’s life has come to my mind over and over.

“You probably recall the scene. It occurs on a path called the Road to Emmaus. Jesus had been executed and news of His death had been widely circulated. It is a story of great religious significance in a city of great religious importance. And all the people seemed to have been talking about it.

“Two people were walking the Road to Emmaus together. We are given few details about them in the text, but one can imagine them robed and sandaled, leaning forward with their hands clasped behind their backs, faces furrowed with concern and questions, the sorts of concerns and questions that we have whenever death comes our way, the sorts of questions we have today, this very hour, two thousand years later.

“Those two — one was a man named Cleopas — were soon joined by a third.

“‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked.

“We don’t know if He was welcome. Maybe the couple would rather have been left to themselves, to untie the Gordian knot of the crucifixion without the distraction of a stranger. But they tolerated Him even if they didn’t actually welcome Him.

“And this third, a talkative chap it seems, asked them what they were discussing so intently.

“’Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? Don’t you watch the news?’”

“And so, they told Him, this poor uninformed fellow. You can almost feel their impatience, their astonishment at His ignorance. Maybe He asked for details, for clarification. Maybe He expressed incredulity and amazement.

“‘You don’t say! Really?’

“Maybe His brow was furrowed too. Maybe not. Maybe He smiled, squinted His eyes, and looked up. We don’t know. But what we do know is that He took over the conversation, just hijacked it right out from under them. And He told them a long story, one they thought they knew already, one they thought they had already figured out and clearly understood.

“He told them the story that many of us think we know, one that we think we’ve all figured out. The wonderful story that, for many of us, has lost any element of wonder. The text tells us that Jesus ‘opened the scriptures’ and brought to life all those words about the everlasting God, about a world made good and beautiful but now horribly ruined, about a rescue that none could possibly have imagined. He told them that story in a way that reawakened wonder in those two fellow travelers.

“From all indications, to their credit, they listened attentively and without interruption. They were so captivated that, when they finally reached their destination and should have been saying farewell, they asked Him to stay with them longer, which He did. And at some point, those two pilgrims realized that their mysterious walking partner was no ordinary man. He could tell them the story because He wrote the story.

“Because He was the story.

“We are told that ‘their eyes were opened.’

“And this is what the pair subsequently recalled when they spoke of their seven-mile walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus.

“‘Our hearts burned within us.’ Their hearts burned within them.”

Father Lundy allowed the phrase to linger in silence for a few seconds before he resumed.

“We all walk roads of various descriptions in life. The long and winding road. The road to ruin. Easy Street. The road less traveled.

“Along the way, there are questions, there is news, there are concerns and fears and uncertainties that furrow our brows, trouble our souls, and break our hearts. Death terrifies many of us.

“But God, in His sublime goodness, has always sent others, mysterious others, to walk with us — prophets, preachers, friends, teachers, artists, storytellers, wives and husbands, children, songbirds and rivers, even hardship and loss — to help us see clearly. They are ones who make our hearts burn within us, who call us out of our indifference, our lethargy, our death and defeat. They call us to be fully alive, or at least more alive than we were before we met them.

“And so . . . Theo.

“For a year, he was in our midst and now, looking back, can’t we say that, when we were with him, our hearts burned within us, our souls stood on tiptoe, our eyes recognized something good and true, and our minds could believe, if not fully, then ever so slightly, that love and heaven and forgiveness are the most real things that we can know in this world?

“I think we are only beginning to understand and appreciate what a unique man Theo was. Can you call to mind anyone who quite so beautifully integrated the concrete and the spiritual? Who lived with such a winsome commitment to the seen and the unseen, the ultimate and the proximate, the wide grace and the narrow way?

“Theo was a playful man in the best sense of that word. But it seems more and more certain to me that his lightheartedness was deadly serious and steeped in purpose. It was one more way in which he spoke to us the language of another place. His every kindness was a signpost, meant no doubt for the present but pointing to the up ahead, aiming at the still to come.

“Like you, I wonder why Theo chose our city. But we can trust that, had he wanted us to know, he would have told us. By all accounts, he wanted refuge. From what or whom? For how long or why, we don’t know. We might never know. But how fortunate we are that he chose us, that out of the whole world available to him — and apparently the whole world was — he settled among us, moved into our neighborhood, adopted us as his children, and made us the objects of his affection and the beneficiaries of his thoughtfulness.

“Theo could have come to us with great fanfare. He could have flaunted his importance and impressed us with his great wealth and long list of accomplishments. Instead, he came with anonymous handwritten letters and no last name. Instead, he came, as did His Lord, not to be served but to serve.

“And if you wonder why, if you are mystified that he was so ruthlessly good, let me tell you and you and you . . .”

Father Lundy looked at the front section, taking time to linger on the face of each one in Theo’s inner circle.

“He . . . loved . . . you.

“And so, I say to you, my friends and neighbors, followers of Christ and those not, if you would honor the memory of Gamez Theophilus Zilavez, then do good, bestow kindness, strive for beauty, seek and find the river that leads to life everlasting, and draw from the fountain that never runs dry.

“Like Theo did.

“For heaven’s sake.

“Amen.”