When he received the envelope from Sebastian Keller, Paul couldn’t help shuddering.
The months that had gone by since his admission to the Masons’ lodge had been disappointing. At first, there had been something almost romantic about entering the secret society almost blindly, the thrill of adventure. But once the initial euphoria had faded, Paul began to wonder about the point of it all. For a start, he’d been forbidden to speak at the lodge gatherings until he’d completed three years as an Apprentice. But that wasn’t the worst of it: the worst thing was performing the extremely long rituals, which seemed to be a waste of time.
Stripped of their rituals, the meetings were no more than a series of conferences and debates on Masonic symbolism and its practical application in improving the virtue of the brother Masons. The only part Paul found even vaguely interesting was when the members decided which charities they would donate to with the money gathered at the end of each meeting.
For Paul, the meetings became an onerous duty, which he endured each fortnight in order to get to know the members of the lodge. Even this aim wasn’t easy to achieve, as the older Masons, those who undoubtedly would have known his father, sat at different tables in the great dining hall. On occasion he’d tried to get close to Keller, wanting to press the bookseller about his promise to hand over whatever it was his father had left for him. In the lodge Keller treated him with distance, and in the bookshop he brushed Paul off with vague excuses.
Keller had never written to him before now, and Paul knew at once that whatever was in the brown envelope the owner of his boardinghouse had given him was the thing he’d been awaiting for so long.
Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his breath labored. He was sure the envelope would contain a letter from his father. He couldn’t hold back his tears when he imagined what must have driven Hans Reiner to compose a missive to his son, then just a few months old, attempting to freeze his voice in time until his son was ready to understand it.
He tried to imagine what his father would want to tell him. Perhaps he would offer wise advice. Perhaps he would embrace him across time.
Perhaps he’ll give me clues about the person or people who were going to kill him, Paul thought, his teeth clenched.
With extreme care he tore open the envelope and put his hand inside. In it there was another, smaller envelope, white, together with a handwritten note on the back of one of the bookseller’s business cards. Dear Paul, Congratulations. Hans would be proud. This is what your father left for you. I don’t know what it contains, but I hope it will help you. S.K.
Paul opened the second envelope and a small sheet of white paper printed in blue fell to the ground. He was paralyzed with disappointment when he picked it up and saw what it was.