Chapter XV

It is clear from the preceding narrative that Saadi reacted in much the same way to all the boys of foreign birth. But with Deland he was different.

Deland had taken him to several of the small parks, and these filled him with delight. He loved to see young creatures at play, loved to see their freedom, loved the games which gave them discipline without their knowing it. “We will yet have some soldiers in Halsted,” he cried.

They were returning late one afternoon from a small park when Saadi suddenly stopped.

“What for are dagos coming out of church? It is not Sunday.”

“Hello,” said Deland, “we’re right in little Sicily, and I’ll bet it’s the funeral of the two brothers that the sawed-off shotgun got. Wait till I ask the cop.”

He loped off across the street, and Saadi saw the officer nod.

“Come on in,” said Deland, returning. “I never saw a Catholic funeral.”

“St. Vitus was Sicilian,” said Saadi irrelevantly, “but the Prussians have his bones at Corvey.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if it would be expensive funeral.”

“Well, let’s just slip in and see how things look.”

They advanced along the edge of the crowd, up the side of the steps, and into the church. No Sicilian paid the slightest attention to them. All the passionate, dark faces were preoccupied, all the voluble tongues silent. Every brain had but one thought—who would be the next?

Passing through the vestibule, the boys pushed through the leathern doors, which swung behind them like a bat’s wings coming to rest. Darkness met them—but it was the darkness of a starry night.

In the distance were tall candles—and beyond them the lights of the altar. Fifty tall candles, rising as high as a man’s head from candelabra as high as a man’s waist. Fifty tall candles, forming a hollow square of tardy defence. And there within the ineffectual fortress rose two high, architectural shadows, along the lines of which the unearthly radiance glinted.

Deland left the shadow of a pillar and led Saadi to a pew, standing aside to let him enter. Saadi knelt, folded his arms on the oaken rail, and gazed. There were still a few persons in the church—perhaps presently the coffins would be taken out—in the front pews mourners were kneeling, three children among them.

Ten minutes went by. “Come on,” whispered Deland. But Saadi did not hear him. Deland rose and tiptoed out. At last Saadi appeared, and they descended into the street.

“Sorry to disturb you, old man, but I’ve got three things to do. I’ve got my supper to get, and a prayer-meeting to attend, and the blood vessels of the neck to grind.”

He led the way to a restaurant, and ordered spaghetti for two.

“Vino!” added Saadi.

“Thought you didn’t drink.”

“I have never drunk glass of wine in whole life. But now I will drink.”

Beyond this remark, Saadi said nothing during the whole meal. He did not touch his spaghetti, but tasted the wine, made a wry face, and fell to consuming cigarettes.

“Well, old man, I don’t wonder the funeral took away your appetite. The worst thing was those poor children in the front pew.”

Saadi turned a dreamy eye. “Do you know names of children?”

“I don’t remember, though I saw them in the paper.”

“I can guess names: Sophia, Massimiliano, Ernesto.”

“Perhaps. People ought to remember that they have names, and aren’t just orphans in the bunch. Their dads put up as good a fight as they could.”

“Bog dal srecu yonacku.”

“Go easy, old man. Say your little piece in United States.”

“It is Bokharan, Deland. It says that their dads were brave and lucky.”

“Gee! I’m glad you think they’ve gone to heaven. But it must be hard for their families to feel like Christians.”

Saadi ignored the reference to heaven. “Deland, I asked doctor is he Christian.”

“Is that right? Did you have the nerve? What did he say?”

“I will not tell you, because I do not know what is Christian. I know what is Orthodox, and Roman, and Uniate, and Bogumil, and what you say fifty-seven varieties, but I wish to know what is Christian without varieties. You tell poor Saadi.”

“What do you take me for, old man? a theological professor?” Deland coughed, and fanned away some of the smoke which, steadily pouring from Saadi’s cigarette, drifted away with difficulty, like sectarian fancies. Then he proceeded. “You can go to prayer-meeting with me, if you like.”

Saadi looked doubtful. “Has real Christian different prayer from all varieties?”

“In my church we have no forms at all.”

“I do not understand. In Moslem prayer-meeting all pray together at one time. So it is in Orthodox and Roman. Maybe you are like Bogumils.”

“You can search me, Saadi. But I promised my mother that I would always go.”

Saadi laid aside his cigarette. “Your mother is alive?”

“No, old man. It’s all I can do to please her now.”

Saadi laid his hand on Deland’s in silent sympathy. Then he sighed, beckoned the waiter, and paid the bill. Deland tried to prevent him, but Saadi caught his wrist and held it as in a band of steel.

They took to the cars and went to prayer-meeting. Saadi listened respectfully to it all, and after meeting they walked in silence to Halsted Street.

Deland settled down to his neglected work, and ground steadily till eleven o’clock. Then he laid aside his tasks, read a favourite chapter in the Book, and dropped on his knees. As he prayed—silently using a blend of Elizabethan archaisms and Halsted vulgarisms—it crossed his mind that he was not doing his whole duty. Might not the grace of God have touched the heart of this strange wandering child? He would tiptoe to Jaffer’s room, and see if Saadi had gone to bed.

He found a pencil of light emerging from the keyhole, and knocked softly. No answer. Evidently Saadi had left the light burning. He would go in and switch it off.

He opened the door. The room was blue with tobacco smoke, but there by Jaffer’s couch knelt Saadi Sereef. Deland’s heart gave a great leap of joy.

Saadi arose, and Deland apologised.

“It is all right, Deland. I am finished with bad job.”

“Don’t say so, old man. It was no bad job to get down on your marrow bones and thank God you’re alive, and ask him to overlook a few things and make a doctor out of you.”

Saadi spoke with measured utterance. “I prayed, Deland. I hunted for person I heard about in Deland’s Bogumil prayer-meeting. He was missing. He was absent on leave. He was gone to visit ghosts and vampires.”

“Old man! My dear old man, you are plumb wrong about it. He is here, Saadi. He’s the whole thing, and all there is. Don’t chuck it, Saadi. Hold on! Get a grip on Him!”

Saadi shook his head.

Deland collapsed into Jaffer’s arm-chair. “Oh, gee! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I don’t see how I can stand it. Say—this is too much for a chucklehead to figure out, but I’m dead sure that you wouldn’t try so hard unless you had already got there. I don’t know how to say it.”

“Bedouin said it long ago, before Pascal or Deland. If thou has sought Me, thou hast already found Me. But it is not true.”

“I’ll give you the Book. I’ll show you the places in it. It would be the best that ever happened if you could go back as a Christian doctor to poor old Bokhara. What I know about your country could be put in a two-ounce bottle, but if Bokhara is anything like America, it needs Jesus Christ, and needs him bad.”

“It may need Issa, my good Yankee boy, or it may not. All it will get is fire and sword.”

Deland saw he was making no headway. “You called our prayer-meeting Bogumil. What does that mean?”

“It is name of dead Christian sect. Bogumils said world is so bad nobody ought to have any kids. Good many didn’t get married. But then Catholics jumped on them, and they had to get kids to fight back. Bogumils believed there is big scrap on between Bog and Shaitan—god and devil.”

“Then they were dead right, Saadi. I’m glad we struck you that way. ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ is some song.”

“I liked it, Deland. But I liked other songs better.”

“What ones?”

“One that said that I’m pilgrim, I’m stranger, I can tarry, I can tarry but one night. Also they sang about ninety and nine. I understood. Men are sheep. I am sheep. I am one that is off on hills astray.”

Tears sprang to Deland’s eyes. “For cramp’s sake, old man, can’t you hear the Voice that is calling you? I’m not much on the gentle shepherd racket, but when a sheep is lost, why, he’s lost. Jesus is mighty to save, but you’ve got to repent. You’re a lost sheep, Saadi, and you’ve got to bleat a little, so that he will know where you are.”

“I cannot repent, Deland. I am liar and thief and man with sawed-off shotgun. I know about sheep. I have been with shepherds in night on hills. I have sat by fire and heard of ghosts and vampires and paradise—where no Christian can go. But what I most know about sheep is this. It must be big wolf-dogs.”

Saadi was still standing, stroking the purring creature that he had rescued from starvation. His eyes were sad, but very calm, and Deland saw that the battle was lost. The man from Salem arose.

“Shall I make Deland little cup of Bokhara coffee with copper toy I bought of Greek?”

“No, old man, it would only keep us awake.”

“Not me, Deland. I would like to do something for Deland.”

“The only thing you can do for me is to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and be saved. And I think you will. I think the time will come when you will feel Him closer than your carotid artery.”

The cat nestled on Saadi’s shoulder, and Saadi held it against his neck. “You ask me to believe in Bog, and I have to say no. Always it will be so—my last word will be No.”