Azriel was a face in the crowd that saw the CNN camera and turned and moved towards it.
He seemed to peer directly through the lense at me.
The newscaster spoke of a city and a country weeping for its murdered leader. The world wept for the man who had wanted peace with the Arabs, and was now dead.
Azriel stared at the camera, and the camera lingered. Azriel was silent-thoughtful-looking right at me. He was dressed in plain black clothes.
The camera and the news moved on.
The third time was merely a glimpse. But I knew that it was Azriel. It was in New York. I was in a cab speeding downtown, navigating wildly through the early afternoon traffic, and off to the side I saw Azriel walking on the street.
He was handsomely dressed, with his hair untamed, and looked magnificent, striding along, carefree and full of wonder. He turned suddenly as if he had felt me see him; he looked around puzzled. But the cab shot on. Trucks blocked my view. We traveled blocks, weaving in and out of other cars. I couldn't have told where it was even, the place where I saw him.
Maybe it wasn't Azriel, I wasn't sure, or so I told myself. And then, of course, I knew that he could reach me if he wanted me. I did not go back to look for him.
It's taken twelve months to prepare this book for publication, and then to publish it effectively under the cloak of anonymity so that my own colleagues won't laugh me out of the university, and those who need to hear this tale won't be hampered by knowing my identity.
There you have it. The Tale of the Servant of the Bones. And the story of what really happened with the cult of the Temple of the Mind. Or you have one story of one soul and its agonies and its refusal to give up, and its ultimate victory.
Azriel, if you read this, if you are pleased, let me know. A call; a small written note; your presence. Anything. My life has never been as it was.
But I am confident that wherever you are, you are both happy and good. And that is what matters to you most, I am sure of it. Altashheth.