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home on Marcius 15 Square, a stone’s throw from Elisabeth Bridge, which linked the ancient cities of Buda and Pest, which were formally united in 1873.
    The Passover holidays were fast approaching—normally one of Köves’s most joyous times of the year—and yet, ever since his return last week from the Parliament of the World’s Religions, he had been feeling only a bottomless disquiet.
    I wish I had never attended.
    The extraordinary meeting with Bishop Valdespino, Allamah Syed al-Fadl, and futurist Edmond Kirsch had plagued Köves’s thoughts for three full days.
    Now, as Köves arrived home, he strode directly to his courtyard garden and unlocked his
házikó
—the small cottage that served as his private sanctuary and study.
    The cottage was a single room with high bookshelves that sagged under the weight of religious tomes. Köves strode to his desk and sat down, frowning at the mess before him.
    If anyone saw my desk this week, they’d think I’d lost my mind.
    Strewn across the work surface, a half-dozen obscure religious texts lay open, plastered with sticky notes. Behind them, propped open on wooden stands, were three heavy volumes—Hebrew, Aramaic, and English versions of the Torah—each opened to the same book.
    Genesis.
    In the beginning …
    Köves could, of course, recite Genesis from memory, in all three languages; he was more likely to be reading academic commentary on the Zohar or advanced Kabbalistic cosmology theory. For a scholar of Köves’s caliber to study Genesis was much like Einstein going back to study grade-school arithmetic. Nonetheless, that’s what the rabbi had been doing this week, and the notepad on his desk looked to have been assaulted by a wild torrent of hand-scrawled notes, so messy that Köves could barely make them out himself.
    I look like I’ve turned into a lunatic.
    Rabbi Köves had started with the Torah—the Genesis story shared by Jews and Christians alike.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
Next, he had turned to the instructional texts of the Talmud, rereading the rabbinic elucidations on
Ma’aseh Bereshit
—the Act of Creation. After that, he delved into the Midrash, poring over the commentaries of various venerated exegetes who had attempted to explain the perceived contradictions in the traditional Creation story. Finally, Köves buried himself in the mystical Kabbalistic science of the Zohar, in which the unknowable God manifested as ten different
sephirot
, or dimensions, arranged along channels called the Tree of Life, and from which blossomed four separate universes.
    The arcane complexity of the beliefs that made up Judaism had always been comforting to Köves—a reminder from God that humankind was not meant to understand all things. And yet now, after viewing Edmond Kirsch’s presentation, and contemplating the simplicity and clarity of what Kirsch had discovered, Köves felt like he had spent the past three days staring into a collection of outdated contradictions. At one point, all he could do was push aside his ancient texts and go for a long walk along the Danube to gather his thoughts.
    Rabbi Köves had finally begun to accept a painful truth: Kirsch’s work would indeed have devastating repercussions for the faithful souls ofthis world. The scientist’s revelation boldly contradicted almost every established religious doctrine, and it did so in a distressingly simple and persuasive manner.
    I cannot forget that final image
, Köves thought, recalling the distressing conclusion of Kirsch’s presentation that they had watched on Kirsch’s oversized phone.
This news will affect every human being—not just the pious.
    Now, despite his reflections over the last few days, Rabbi Köves still felt no closer to knowing what to do with the information that Kirsch had provided.
    He doubted Valdespino and al-Fadl had found any clarity either. The three men had communicated by phone two days ago, but the conversation had not been