“He said that?”

“He did!”

“That’s beautiful.”

“Fuckin’ A yes it is! Aquinas was a genius. And that’s why I’m here, so we can listen together to the stream of the river of the core of the artery—of the heart. And we have figured it out, Marvin, we have!”

“We have?”

“Yes, yes we did! This music, it’s kind of like—it’s really like, like a love song between Schubert and his Maker.”

“Huh. How’s that?”

“How? How is—it’s because you can hear it. You know what I mean, that feeling that something’s going to happen, right?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, and Schubert’s not just giving you a little sip from the source. As you said, he put everything in this one. He’s saying fine, fuck it, you want the sublime, I’ll give you the sublime—and I’m going to show you how I made it, too. So he lays out all the different parts, right? You can see all the pieces. And he lets you listen to him building, building, building towards it—getting close, slipping back, trying again, and you get nervous like he might not make it.”

“Yeah.”

“But then you start getting these hints like holy fuck he might be onto something.”

“Yeah.”

“And then it gets quiet, so you can hear him, and Schubert says: do you understand, now? Do you see what it takes? The terrible risk, trying with everything he’s got to create the sound of God with some fucking wood and string and getting nothing? He’s saying thanks for the support, folks, but let’s be serious, it doesn’t matter where you’re going if you never get there.”

“Oh, snap.”

“That’s right, but he says fuck it, and takes the plunge—and it’s wrenching, listening to him work, a feint here, a try there, stick and move, stick and move.”

“Yeah.”

“And then he goes for it! Throws everything at you! And it’s big, fucking big! Almost everything, almost complete, and you don’t even realize that’s it not everything until the moment—”

“The cello comes in,” Marvin whispered.

“Yes! Right! Exactly! All the pieces! Everything together! And just like that, he has shown you what God sounds like!”

“Yes.”

“And what is it? What does He sound like?”

“What? Like…what?”

“It’s—Marvin, it’s everything together, the balance. Four instruments, perfect harmony, everything balanced together.”

“Yeah.”

“Because harmony is balance right? And control—restraint.”

“Right.”

“Like, if the violins went off and did some crazy violin shit, what the fuck is the viola going to do, right?”

“Right.”

“They could go all nutty and bust everything up if they can’t stay in control—and God didn’t give unto violins to bust shit up, right?”

“Right, right.”

“Because music is creation, Marvin, always creation—never destruction. Violins don’t get to choose—”

“God chooses.”

“That’s right, Marvin! And Schubert’s got that shit locked down—violins, viola all under control, holding on, holding on, just a few more seconds. And then the cello comes in and there He is.”

“Yes.”

“It’s all about the harmony, Marvin. Even Schubert couldn’t do it alone, right? He needed the musicians—their hands, right? Their hands on the wood, fingers on the strings like—like Mattie’s fingers in the clay.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a creator Marvin, a teacher, a leader of men—”

“Yes.”

“Marvin the leader of men, with hands to mangle evil, but the heart, the heart to restrain yourself, to stay in control. Always in control! Other strong men destroy, Marvin. But not you. You never fight to destroy. You fight to create!”

“Yes.”

“Marvin the motherfucking warrior ninja for God and country, leader of men.”

“Yes.”

“Do you see how it all makes sense, Marvin? How it all fits together?”

“I think so. I think I do.”

“Yes, you do! Why were you put on this earth, Marvin? Instructor Marvin, teacher Marvin.”

“I teach. I lead.”

“That’s right! That’s our work, Marvin. That’s our task—getting you back on that path.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, do you believe it?”

“I believe it.”

“So what do you need, Marvin? What—who needs a teacher?”

“I—students.”

“Right! And you don’t need the Army to find students, Marvin. Just keep kicking ass in the ring and they’ll find you, your students, your flock—your exaltation.”

“Yes!”

“No randomness, Marvin.”

“Yes! Yes, I see it!”

~

It was awfully generous, but Sam really didn’t need a place to crash. Marvin had already been so kind. Sam could find his way to a hostel—he’d take an Uber. It was too late, Marvin said. Sam would never get into a hostel at that hour. He would end up sleeping at the Greyhound station or a McDonald’s. No sweat, Sam said. He had done it before. He was grateful for the offer, but he just couldn’t put Marvin out. Additionally, he snored like he was revving up a chainsaw. But it was no problem. Marvin assured him, it would be his pleasure. Anyway, Marvin could sleep through anything smaller than an M2 Browning—and he had plenty of space.

It was true. Marvin’s one-bedroom apartment was on the twenty-third floor of a high rise. In the foyer, they removed their shoes and walked into a large open living room.

“I hope you’re not allergic to cats?”

“No.”

“Good.” Marvin nodded towards the fat, long-haired calico ignoring them on the loveseat. “Matilda pretty much runs the place.”

Down from the loveseat was an L-shaped couch, the shorter side extending almost to floor-length windows that spanned half the room. A sliding glass door led to the patio, from which Marvin had an unobstructed view of the Space Needle and the black water behind it. The wall opposite was lined with three tall, matching bookcases, almost full. To one side of them was a hallway, down which Sam could see two open doors to the bedroom and the bathroom; on the other side was an eat-in kitchen. On the walls were several photos. There was Marvin’s wife in a hospital bed with a baby swaddled in pink in her arms. There was Marvin, much younger, smiling, each of his children perched on a shoulder, secured by his enormous hands. There was his daughter a few years later, on stage in a purple tutu: the Sugar Plum Fairy, with several little Dew Drops about her in pink.

“Let me get you some sheets,” Marvin said. “And I might have an extra pillow.”

“I’m okay with anything. Thanks.”

Marvin went down the hall, calling over his shoulder: “Beer and water in the fridge. You’re welcome to anything else in there, but smell it first.”

“Thanks.” Sam went to the windows and looked out at the night, clear and expansive, the cloudless sky.

Marvin returned with a stack of folded sheets, a blanket, a quilt, and two pillows. He put them on the couch and walked over to the bookcases. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Marvin withdrew a large hardcover from a top shelf. “I want you to have this,” he said, handing it to Sam.

The cover read: The 800 Methods.

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“This has eight hundred deadly moves,” Marvin said. “It’s the most comprehensive monograph on the subject. Most of the strikes kill with one blow, once you master them. I’ve dog-eared some of my favorites. It’s actually padded with a few techniques that are hard to use outside laboratory conditions. But they’re still good to know.”

“You don’t need it?”

“Nah, do ‘em in my sleep. You take care of it, it’s gotten me out of some real jams.”

“I will. Thank you, Marvin.”

“Absolutely. Thank you.” He turned and went into the kitchen. “Take a load off. I’m going to grab a beer and then I’ll get down the air mattress. You want one?”

“Great, thanks.”

“By the way,” Marvin called from the kitchen, “the line, it’s not Aquinas. It’s Merton.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No need,” Marvin said, returning with two bottles. “The line is: ‘I believe that the desire to please you does, in fact, please you.’ That’s Merton.”

“Merton.”

“Thomas Merton.” Marvin smiled and pulled the cap off one bottle with his fingers, handing it to Sam. He placed his own on the bookshelf and turned to face his guest. Looking up, holding his hands out, Marvin closed his eyes and recited: ‘My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does, in fact, please you.’” He opened his beer, and they toasted.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes. It is.”

Marvin took a swig, then placed the bottle on a coaster on the coffee table. “If you’ll excuse me, gotta wash up.” He waved towards the couch, the kitchen. “Have a seat, a snack, relax, whatever you like. Don’t take any shit from Matilda.”

He didn’t. Nor did Sam take The 800 Methods when he slipped out of the apartment some hours before dawn, leaving a note: “Marvin, thanks so much. But books are heavy and I travel light.”