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    Curiosity
    Curiosity
    Curiosity
    Ebook281 pages4 hours

    Curiosity

    By Ulf Wolf

    ()

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    About this ebook

    To say that Sam was obsessed with reincarnation would not have been too wide off the mark. His childhood experience pointed in that direction, but how could he be sure? How could anyone be sure?

    In his search for the truth in this regard, he discovered that early Church Fathers, like Origen, definitely held the immortality of the spirit to be a fact; as did many of the classic (and many more recent) philosophers. But did they know? Or just speculate? Pythagoras, Plato, Plotinus. Did they know?

    Also, the cynic in him was convinced that political as well as economic interests had seen the early Church leaders (and translators) purge the Bible of any mention of, or reference to, or even hint of, reincarnation. Surviving death made a mockery of Hell and was very bad for business.

    What does happen after we die? It was a question he would not, could not let go of. He simply had to find out.

    His curiosity knew no bounds.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUlf Wolf
    Release dateApr 18, 2019
    ISBN9780463936146
    Curiosity
    Author

    Ulf Wolf

    Ulf is a Swedish name that once meant Wolf. So, yes, Wolf Wolf, that's me. I was born Ulf Ronnquist one snowy night in late October, in one of those northern Swedish towns that are little more than a clearing in the forest. Fast forward through twenty Swedish years, ten or so English ones, and another twenty-four in the US and you'll find me in front of an immigrations officer conducting the final citizenship interview, at the end of which he asks me, "What name would you like on your passport?" And here I recall what a friend had told me, that you can pick just about any name you want at this point, and I heard me say "Ulf Wolf." That's how it happened. Scout's honor. Of course, I had been using Ulf Wolf as a pen name for some time before this interview, but I hadn't really planned to adopt that as my official U.S. name. But I did. I have written stories all my life. Initially in Swedish, but for the last twenty or so years in English. To date I have written six novels, four novellas and two scores of stories; along with many songs and poems. My writing focus these days is on life's important questions (in my view): Who are we? What are we doing here? And how do we break out of this prison?

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      Book preview

      Curiosity - Ulf Wolf

      Curiosity

      a Novel

      Ulf Wolf

      Smashwords Edition

      October 2019

      Copyright

      Curiosity

      Copyright 2019 by Wolfstuff

      http://wolfstuff.com

      All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Smashwords License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ::

      "The Lord brought me forth as the first of his works, before his deeds of old; I was appointed from eternity, from the beginning, before the world began."

      Proverbs 8:22

      If anyone asserts the fabulous pre-existence of souls, and shall assert the monstrous restoration which follows from it: let him be anathema.

      First Anathema against Origen

      5th Ecumenical Council

      of Constantinople 553 AD

      I know I would die if I could come back new.

      Jeff Tweedy

      :: Prologue

      Perhaps I saw him earlier, I probably did. I must have. I’m sure I must have. He must have crossed the west-bound lanes, must have. And that must have been noticeable. I must have seen that. But honestly, I don’t remember. I’ve tried to, believe me. I’ve tried to remember. But no matter how hard I try, I just can’t. Besides, there is a difference between seeing and noticing. Big difference. Maybe I saw but didn’t notice.

      And then, out of absolutely nowhere, he’s right in front of me, right there in the fast lane. My fast lane, the one I’m in. Standing there. Still as rock and, yes, smiling. In his dark-blue suit and light-blue tie. Funny thing to notice, the color of the tie, though those details didn’t register right away, my brain took its sweet time to catch up with what my eyes took in.

      Well, for one, this should not, could not, be happening. That’s what my brain said. And in no uncertain terms. Then immediately launched into an argument with my eyes, who insisted that it very much was, very happening. And by then it was too late.

      There are reasons for this internal conflict, of course, and they have been explained to me, often—since I don’t seem to really get it—and for me not noticing, for me not registering right away him standing there.

      For one, the pretty doctor with the tortoiseshell glasses says that by living and driving in Los Angeles I had, like everybody else who lives and drives here, she says, learned to live a full—even rewarding, she kept stressing, rewarding—life in my car, and too many thoughts and plans and worries and whatnots would have lingered between me and him (obscuring the view as it were) even after my eyes first took him in, and that’s why I didn’t even slow down at first. Well, that’s what she says, anyway. I don’t know what to think. All I know is that even after I saw him, it didn’t reach me, if you know what I mean. Just didn’t register. He was all too impossible.

      My eyes saw, though. Yes, definitely, she says, taking their side in their argument with my brain. They saw, and absorbed and reported the fact back toward wherever I was at the time, dreaming, planning and whatnot. Saw and said:

      "There’s someone climbing over the center divider and he is now stepping into the fast lane. Into my fast lane. Into precisely where my car is heading.

      In a light-blue tie.

      I’m not sure my eyes told me all this in time for me to not hit him, but even so, I didn’t hear, and that’s why he’s dead now.

      When I finally got the message (my brain near enough overwhelmed by now with visual evidence) everything turned extremely real. And still. And slow.

      Turned to ice all down my arms, standing all those little hairs erect, making my fingers tingle and suddenly I was aware of everything: of the little smudge on the dashboard (I had noticed it that very morning and was meaning to wash it off); of the Mayflower truck bearing down the eastbound portion of the freeway (it was very dirty), of the texture of the music that filled the car (rich and wonderful, it was Schumann’s Second, one of my favorites), and of the full and sickening impact of my car crushing this human being at what was precisely seventy-six miles per hour (I know, I looked and it reminded me of that gas station, with the big ball and the number seventy-six on it) at precisely 2:48 (the digital clock turned from 2:47 to 2:48 as I glanced), which I noticed along with the speed.

      And this is the thing: I have yet to touch the breaks. It’s like I’ve lost the use of my legs.

      I tell the pretty doctor with the tortoiseshell glasses that I am sure I have yet to break, but she tells me I am not sure at all, how can I be sure of anything in the midst of a panic, she points out, and so I agree with her that I’m not so sure, and she smiles (and forgives); but really, I am sure, I’m very sure: I have yet to touch the breaks.

      Another thing I’m sure of: that man is smiling. Which is another thing the pretty doctor with the tortoiseshell glasses says I have no business being sure of. But I am: just before I hit him I see him very clearly (in my now slow-motion vision) in his dark-blue suit and his light-blue tie and he is smiling, looking for all I could tell, well, happy. As if he’s been waiting for me for a long time, and now he’s glad that I’ve finally arrived.

      Of course not, she says, and I repeat what she says, of course not, but I say that just to please her. For I know. He looked happy to see me. At peace. And he was smiling. When I close my eyes—and even when I don’t—I can see him clearly: young—well, from where I’m sitting—early thirties somewhere, trim and well-dressed in his dark-blue suit and light-blue tie. Five ten, I’d say. Shiny shoes. Very shiny shoes—how on earth I noticed that, I do not know, but they shone, perhaps the sun reflected, I don’t remember. And how did I notice that the suit was double breasted? And dark-blue, yes, I’ve said that.

      Arms straight down his sides, relaxed.

      And smiling. Looking at me (or at least at my car—I’m not sure he could see me through the windshield which would have reflected the sky for him) coming for him, and smiling as if finally: there you are, as if I am some sort of gift. Smiling, not at me, but to himself.

      There’s another thing about his smile (which the pretty doctor says I must have imagined altogether, and which is probably one of the reasons they’re not thinking about releasing me anytime soon). The smile said: I’m going home, or somewhere like home. Some place he’s eager to get to. Some place with answers. I know this sounds crazy (and may very well be), but that’s the impression I got, and it was a strong impression at that. Probably kookoo, chances are, but I’m just being as honest as I can be.

      No, she says, the pretty doc, he could not have said that. He could not have smiled. Opposing what I just told her. And she’s the boss, so I agree with her. That’s how I get these interminable interviews to end.

      Sometimes, though, I realize, and with not a little relief, that he wasn’t smiling at all, that he was distraught and desperate and afraid and whatever else she told me he must have been to do a thing like that, and that he was in such a bad way that he simply had to kill himself, for of course, she has told me a thousand times, it was a suicide and no fault of mine, at all. And for a moment I see what she wants me to see, and that makes me feel a little better. But not for all that long—though I never tell her that. I know what I saw, and he was smiling. Happy to see me coming. Happy to be going somewhere nicer than here.

      Then reason appears with its five cents worth: how could anybody smile like that when a car comes at you at seventy-six miles an hour—Union 76, that’s what that sign was, what the gas is called—and keep smiling.

      It was a suicide, yes. I agree with her. It was. He wanted to die. Couldn’t wait to. She says he had his reasons for doing what he did, as if she knew precisely what they were but would not trust me with the details, not in the state I’m in.

      But he didn’t look like a troubled man, not at all. And the smile, the smile I did not see according to authority, was not a smile of relief (if there even is such a thing). It was not an escape smile, he wasn’t escaping anything. No, not at all. He was anticipating—yes, that’s the word—not escaping.

      To my thinking—reason tossing another nickel into the mix—and I can’t think my way around this: there should have been fear in his face. He should have been afraid of me, of my car coming at him. I would certainly have been. About to die.

      And then I hit him and nothing happened as it does in the movies. He did not fly up in the air and he did not spin twice like a summersaulting rag doll clown to land fifty some feet away in a heap out in a field. I did not then skid to a halt in a cloud of squealing rubber while barely missing other braking cars. I did not then rush over to him in fruitless hope. None of this happened. The pictures I now look at, one slowly giving way to the next, tell this story instead:

      He just stands there, still. Arms by his side. Dark-blue, double breasted suit and all. Smiling. Light-blue tie. Glad to make my car’s acquaintance.

      My car would have struck him just below the knees, or right at the knees. Even now, I can actually feel his legs giving way, hear them give way as his torso jerks towards me in instant whiplash. The smile is suddenly gone, eradicated by surprise at the pain, I assume (didn’t he know it would hurt?). Then he folds backwards and strikes the concrete, his face still clearly visible to me as he falls away one inch at a time at not quite seventy-six miles an hour anymore. Even the surprise is now gone, and there it is, finally, there’s the fear I’ve been missing, in eyes facing the irrevocable: suicide no longer theory.

      And everything in slow-slow-slow-motion.

      Then his face is gone and my car is all on top of him. And for the next many seconds it was like driving a bumpy dirt road. One of those where the wheel ruts are so deep from carts and tractors or what-have-you farm machinery that the bottom of your car touches the ground at every turn and you pray that your exhaust system and drive train will still be with you when you arrive, if you arrive. And all hell to steer.

      Then my feet (very slow on the uptake) finally get around to hitting the brakes.

      I’m braking now—wheels coughing and stuttering, but not locking, not yet, then locking—and steering this country road (which by now felt more like tracks cross a wild field) and my car is swerving to the right, but slowing fast. Out of my lane, into the next, and the next, and the next. I can hear rubber burning, if that makes sense. There are other cars heading east, I am aware of them, but they are few, it was early afternoon. I remember thinking, though, that I’m lucky, I’m really lucky that I’m not running into any of them. And then slide over the rightmost lane onto the shoulder. And then I’m standing still.

      There’s a breeze inside my head.

      Ahead of me a car or two slow down and turn for the side, too. Others crawl by but don’t stop, just looking, a quick face, concerned, hungry for blood or disaster, then they speed away. I am sweating, I notice that. I look in a wonder at my hands, still on the wheel. Holding it. White knuckles. Frozen. I try to let go but my hands ignore my intentions. The wheel is real. Is what we hold on to. Is where we stay. I try again to pry them loose, my will a lever, reluctant fingers no cooperating.

      When I finally succeed I notice that the wheel is damp—no, actually wet—where my hands have just grasped. My heart, oh, my heart, panicked, racing at two hundred or so ticks a minute, at least. Screaming like a drum roll, wanting to be let out, more beating to do than my ribs will stand for. And then the shaking. Either I had not noticed it before or it just started. My hands were shaking like two pale, scared animals in my lap and I really could keep neither of them still, not for anything. Now I’m fascinated by my hands, this has never happened to me before, and I stare at them, each burrowing into the other for comfort, while my heart, independent of all else, keeps racing.

      A movement outside the car breaks this spell. I lift my eyes to locate this no longer visible movement, but what waits for me in the rear-view mirror arrives first. At first, I don’t understand what I see. It is beautiful and so out of place on the freeway. I see two long black streaks bordering a path of dark red, pursuing and then catching my car. You know, it really was beautiful. It was so symmetrical, so distinct, and so out of place. And then I remember the bumpy road, and God, I think, he’s still under the car. And then the first person to reach me taps on my window.

      He said something I could not hear. Said that something again. Or something else. Still couldn’t hear him. Then he turned to others, people leaving other cars and running in my direction, gathering, and he said something to them, shouted something I still couldn’t make out. Have I, I remember wondering, have I gone deaf? It wasn’t really a question, it was just a stab you know, in the direction of one, just a second’s whisper: have I lost my hearing? Then this person (it’s a man) outside my car tries to open the door and this I can finally hear.

      It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. This is Los Angeles. He talks to me again and although I can hear him now, his urgent words, I don’t understand them and my hands, curled up in my lap, keep shaking. People are pointing now to the path behind me, to the black and red of that bumpy road and they look back at me, and they all look at me.

      And they all look at me.

      And someone bends down to take a look under the car and then he stands up and then he runs down the embankment and is sick. And I notice all this, and they all look at me and then, for the first time, watching that guy over in the embankment heaving, I know that I have killed a human being and my hands can find no comfort anywhere.

      That was three years ago now, today. It was the fifth of June, a Thursday, and that is what today is. The fifth of June (not a Thursday, though). Then again, it’s always the fifth of June.

      And the one thing, after all these fifths of June, the one thing I can’t let go of, the one thing that stays with me, is his smile. Or, as she informs me, my mind won’t stop putting it there, into those images that won’t let me alone either. Yes, she’s told me that I’m wrong, that I didn’t see the smile, and then, for a while, I know—at last—that she’s right: I didn’t see it. And then I try to forget, and then I do forget, and then I watch TV or something and I’m going down the freeway at seventy-six miles an hour and he’s standing there in the middle of the road and I see the smile and everything starts all over. Fifth of June again.

      I stop the movie. I won’t let me hit him. I won’t see the smile, I won’t paint the pavement with black and red. But he’s smiling at me and he beckons and begs me to keep driving, to hand him this present, to answer his question. To let him in.

      So the movie starts up again and then there is no doubt. He does smile. And it is a pleased smile. And these days I see it as a forgiving smile—maybe that is me making things up, but it’s a nice thing, it gives me some measure of peace: it’s him, it says, that’s doing the killing, not me. And he thanks me and understands what he’s doing to me. But most of all he’s looking forward to what’s coming next, and then the pain arrives and washes all that out of his face.

      But it couldn’t have happened. I couldn’t have seen all this. He couldn’t have talked to me that way. I don’t even think he could have seen me, what with the glare of the windshield and it all went so fast. But the movie insists. And here I see him again: there is the expectation again, the verge of discovery on his face, the anticipation. And then I have to stop the pictures from coming because he is no more and I’m still here remembering.

      I didn’t unlock the door. No way. Not for anyone. Especially not after killing someone. For by then I knew: I had killed. It was a fresh knowledge, palpable as ice, and it was all mine.

      At first, it was really weird, it was almost like a thrill. No, it was a thrill. Suddenly, I was different. Not many people have killed. Well, bugs and stuff, but not another person, not another human being. Then the knowledge came on stronger, more and more of it, filled me and continued the filling long after I was already full of this feeling, and it started to suffocate me for there was more of it and it needed to come in too and there was no more room, so it crowded and pushed and pressed itself harder and harder until all I knew, holding these hands up (for they wouldn’t lie still in my lap, these shaking hands), was that I had killed. I had killed and death was choking me. And it seized me as I looked out at the pointing and gesticulating little crowd, or not so little anymore, and it was terrible and the lights were flashing on the black and whites as they arrived and then there was a knock on the door that was not very tentative.

      The officer knocked again.

      Are you all right, sir?

      I think he said. I say think, for the filling and rushing and pounding of blood in my ears from my heart still racing and the roar of the filling drowned most other sounds. Then he said something again. I’m sure he had said something, I saw his lips move, yes, I did: it was a question, and it was meant for me. I may even have seen his words leave his lips for my ear, but if I could no longer make out words was I really hearing? I looked at him very hard and it didn’t make any sense.

      Sir. I think he was shouting now, he must have been, his eyes were bulging slightly, an anger coming on.

      Are you all right? That I heard. He pauses and studies me, for a long time it seems. No, it was a long time. Sir. Please open the door.

      And then I realize that he is a policeman

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