Genesis of Evil Read Online Free
Author: Nile J. Limbaugh
picked up the small box he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. He took it to her and placed it on the bed near her right hand.
“Now, my son, listen carefully. There will be enough money in this coffer to see you through university. Don’t squander one centime of it or all will be lost.” Her head fell back to the pillow and she coughed and gasped for breath. After a few moments she looked at Zoltan again. “Now, give your mother a kiss and go for a walk. Look at the buildings you love. Return in two hours, no sooner. There is something I must do this evening.” She took his right hand in both of hers and smiled up at him. It looked to Zoltan as if her face glowed golden for a moment, and then returned to the ashen gray that he had come to accept as her natural coloring. He smiled, bent and kissed Bertuska on the cheek. A tear rolled from her eye and she waved him away. “I love you more than life itself, my Zoltan. Now go!”
Zoltan left the room and stepped into the darkening street.
When he returned two hours later Bertuska lay on her back, arms at her sides, a gentle smile on her withered face. The room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke and a half burned candle stood on the stand next to the bed. Near the candle was the coffer. Zoltan picked it up. There was soot on the bottom of the container and a note beneath it, written in the shaky hand of the dying woman.
My dear Zoltan, do as I have instructed regarding this coffer and the money in it. Take only what you need at the time, no more. Spend only on education, food, clothing, shelter or medical expenses when you must. If you spend recklessly there will not be enough to see you through. You have been my one bright light in a life of darkness. Everything I have done was done because I love you. Live well, my son, live well.
The note had been in a drawer for almost four years now. He could recite it by heart. Zoltan drew away from the window and looked down at the diploma. He stepped to the dresser, picked up the small leather coffer and hesitated for a moment. Then he gently lifted the lid.
The coffer was empty.
Chapter Four
Europe — 1974
Zoltan Lugoj was born to design buildings. That was what his professors told him in Paris, and the thought was echoed by his supervisors at every firm where he worked. He could picture, in his mind’s eye, exactly how a building should look before setting pencil to paper. When he started to draw, the lines seemed to flow from his hand like milk from a pitcher. Had he stayed in his native Romania this talent would never have matured. There was no inspiration in the simple huts of his homeland. But the magnificent buildings of Europe left him spellbound and jump-started his imagination. His designs were totally devoid of the frills that would have hidden the elegance of line characterizing his work. Had he been the type to blow his own horn, he could have become internationally acclaimed. But Zoltan was happy simply creating and, later, admiring the fruits of his labor. As the employee of a large and faceless architectural firm, his work was also admired by many others but the name they put on it was the name of the company for which he worked.
Zoltan spent the first few years after graduation with a firm in Paris. It specialized in office complexes and commercial buildings, only occasionally taking on the design of a private home. Jean-Louis Petard, the owner of a firm supplying electronic switching devices to the motor companies of Europe, commissioned one of these homes. Price was not a consideration.
When the house was completed it was the talk of the neighborhood. M. Petard was ecstatic. When his brother, Felix, came to visit from Canada he, too, was flabbergasted and wanted to know the name of the designer. Jean-Louis could only name the firm and had never considered the possibility that one man held responsibility for the flowing lines. Felix, who was a builder of luxury homes, knew that no committee
“Now, my son, listen carefully. There will be enough money in this coffer to see you through university. Don’t squander one centime of it or all will be lost.” Her head fell back to the pillow and she coughed and gasped for breath. After a few moments she looked at Zoltan again. “Now, give your mother a kiss and go for a walk. Look at the buildings you love. Return in two hours, no sooner. There is something I must do this evening.” She took his right hand in both of hers and smiled up at him. It looked to Zoltan as if her face glowed golden for a moment, and then returned to the ashen gray that he had come to accept as her natural coloring. He smiled, bent and kissed Bertuska on the cheek. A tear rolled from her eye and she waved him away. “I love you more than life itself, my Zoltan. Now go!”
Zoltan left the room and stepped into the darkening street.
When he returned two hours later Bertuska lay on her back, arms at her sides, a gentle smile on her withered face. The room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke and a half burned candle stood on the stand next to the bed. Near the candle was the coffer. Zoltan picked it up. There was soot on the bottom of the container and a note beneath it, written in the shaky hand of the dying woman.
My dear Zoltan, do as I have instructed regarding this coffer and the money in it. Take only what you need at the time, no more. Spend only on education, food, clothing, shelter or medical expenses when you must. If you spend recklessly there will not be enough to see you through. You have been my one bright light in a life of darkness. Everything I have done was done because I love you. Live well, my son, live well.
The note had been in a drawer for almost four years now. He could recite it by heart. Zoltan drew away from the window and looked down at the diploma. He stepped to the dresser, picked up the small leather coffer and hesitated for a moment. Then he gently lifted the lid.
The coffer was empty.
Chapter Four
Europe — 1974
Zoltan Lugoj was born to design buildings. That was what his professors told him in Paris, and the thought was echoed by his supervisors at every firm where he worked. He could picture, in his mind’s eye, exactly how a building should look before setting pencil to paper. When he started to draw, the lines seemed to flow from his hand like milk from a pitcher. Had he stayed in his native Romania this talent would never have matured. There was no inspiration in the simple huts of his homeland. But the magnificent buildings of Europe left him spellbound and jump-started his imagination. His designs were totally devoid of the frills that would have hidden the elegance of line characterizing his work. Had he been the type to blow his own horn, he could have become internationally acclaimed. But Zoltan was happy simply creating and, later, admiring the fruits of his labor. As the employee of a large and faceless architectural firm, his work was also admired by many others but the name they put on it was the name of the company for which he worked.
Zoltan spent the first few years after graduation with a firm in Paris. It specialized in office complexes and commercial buildings, only occasionally taking on the design of a private home. Jean-Louis Petard, the owner of a firm supplying electronic switching devices to the motor companies of Europe, commissioned one of these homes. Price was not a consideration.
When the house was completed it was the talk of the neighborhood. M. Petard was ecstatic. When his brother, Felix, came to visit from Canada he, too, was flabbergasted and wanted to know the name of the designer. Jean-Louis could only name the firm and had never considered the possibility that one man held responsibility for the flowing lines. Felix, who was a builder of luxury homes, knew that no committee
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