Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Science vs. Religion... Darwinism vs. Creationism... Chaos Theory
vs. Intelligent Design. The debate is endless and often extreme.
But what if there were another option?
Evelyn Chadwick is a brilliant, complex woman, just 28 yearsold.
Her father was a renowned Evangelist. In rebellion, she became a
quantum physicist. Then she rebelled against that, too.
Now, in trying to find herself, she contructs an entirely new way of
thinking – and with all the spin of the modern media machine, she
becomes a global icon...
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I/D © LEON BERGER
All rights reserved.
All feedback welcome: www.meleonberger@yahoo.ca
Full list of published novels: www.lberger.ca
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1
“Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.” Genesis 3, 19
“Good morning friends and welcome to another edition of ‘Sunday with Merle
Chadwick,’ brought to you by this station and our fine sponsors. Hi, I'm Merle
Chadwick and for the next sixty minutes I'll be here with some special guests and
our live studio congregation to help you restore, redeem and rejoice. So let’s get
the show on the road with Bernie Taff, the Merle Chadwick choir and ‘I’m gonna
let it shine!’”
• • •
Adam Olmstead is late. He should already be there at the Ministry but has to
make do with listening to the broadcast on his car radio.
Fatigued, he pulls over to squint at the spidery lines on the roadmap, then wipes
the steamedup windshield so he can peer out yet again. But the autumn rain
mist is even heavier now than it was earlier and there’s little to be seen beyond
the immediate vicinity. Is he near the exit? Has he gone past it? There’s no
reference to the Ministry on the map and he’s really got no idea where he is.
For an experienced world traveler, his poor sense of direction has become
something of a joke over the years, yet even he has to admit that getting lost on a
toll thruway in upstate New York takes some doing.
• • •
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The Merle Chadwick choir ends with a flourish and veteran bandleader, Bernie
Taff, baton in hand, beams modestly at the appreciative studio audience seated
before him on blond wood pews. Adding to the churchlike effect is a radiant
golden light from filtered arc lamps, carefully positioned behind what appear to
be solid stone walls with stainedglass windows but which are, in fact, made of
polyurethane.
Joining in with the applause is the aging figure of the Reverend Merle Chadwick,
dressed today in a gray cashmere threepiece over a starched white shirt and red
tie. But while his presentation is impeccably manicured, his populist charisma
never fails to make the staging look easy as he makes his way to the pulpit, an
imposing structure decorated with the show’s longestablished logo: a stylized
cross inlaid with his own scripted monogram. Taking his time, he opens the
leatherbound Bible in front of him to a bookmarked page. The silence of the
dead air, interrupted only by a stray cough, is calculated to allow for a complete
mood change and his broad smile has now been replaced by an expression of
earnest sincerity. It’s time for prayer.
“Today’s passage from the Good Book,” he says solemnly, “comes from the
Gospel of St. Matthew, chapter five, verse one… ‘And when he saw the
multitudes, he went up on the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples
came to him. And he began to teach them, saying that blessed are the poor in
spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they
shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth…’”
Here he comes to a halt, not because he’s changing the mood this time but
because his eyes are closed, his mouth is open and he’s trying with short, gasping
breaths to take in more air. He appears to sway and instinctively he clutches at
the lipped sides of the lectern in front of him, causing his wedding band to flash
briefly in the light. He still wears it even though it’s been fourteen years since his
wife passed away.
“Cut tape, cut sound, cue curtain...” In studio control, production manager Paul
Geller is already on high alert. “Somebody get the Reverend a chair. C’mon,
c’mon, let’s go. And some water... April, call Jesse, we need the medics here
pronto. Bernie, over to you in ten, all set?” Through the glass, the bandleader
gives a single, silent nod in response. He’s been through this before. “Jimmy, cue
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theme, okay? Pat, save the houselights, standby spots three and six… All right,
good, and it’s a go in five, four, three, two, lights... and Bernie...”
Strains of the show’s recorded theme emanate from the speakers and a double
circle of light hits Bernie Taff who steps forward, a remote handmike now
replacing his baton, so he can reassure the studio audience.
• • •
Adam Olmstead finally steers his venerable wagon through a pair of forged iron
gates, then follows a long curving driveway towards a cluster of postmodernist
buildings. He doesn’t have to look at his watch to know that he’s embarrassingly
late.
As he emerges, a thin rain slices at him, forcing him into an unflattering scamper
towards the portico and it’s not until he’s inside the lobby atrium that he can
pause to remove his field coat. Once he’s organized, he presents himself to a
smart, middleaged woman at the reception counter.
“Hi there,” she smiles, “welcome to the Merle Chadwick Ministry.” Behind her,
mounted on the bricktiled wall, is a giltframed oil portrait of a much younger
Merle Chadwick, his blue eyes bright and his gaze uplifting.
“Yes, my name’s Adam Olmstead. I’ve an appointment with Mr. Eberhardt?”
“Certainly. And from which organization would that be?”
“CNN.”
This is not strictly true, of course. Technically, he’s an independent who produces
documentaries on contract, so he doesn’t really work for the network as such, he’s
only in association; but when he’s out in some distant corner of the globe trying
to gain access to a government official or, as has happened more than once, to
negotiate his way through an armed roadblock, it’s often surprising how easily
those three magic letters help smooth out the process. Even here, where it’s a
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little more homespun and his presence is expected, the simple abbreviation still
rolls much more easily off the tongue than a long explanation and he’s gotten
into the habit of saying it.
“Mr. Eberhardt apologizes,” says the receptionist. “He’ll be with you shortly.
Would you care to take a seat?”
She indicates an alcove in which a number of low chairs are grouped around a
square table. Built into the back wall is a screen, which shows the current session
being taped in the main studio. Right now, Bernie Taff’s choir is again in full
song, this time as background accompaniment for today’s special guest soloist,
the AfricanAmerican soprano, Cecilia Grenville, who appears to be half way
through her gospelinspired rendition of “Amazing Grace,” which she sang last
year at the Rose Bowl. Intercut shots of the studio audience show them to be
entranced but out here in the lobby, the volume is so low it hardly seems to do
justice to her spirited performance.
Adam sinks down into one of the chairs and stretches out his legs in front of him,
his mind not on the screen but lost in time. His mother once had a vinyl record of
Joan Baez singing that same song which she’d play in the evenings after he’d
gone to bed; that and “Kumbaya” and a whole bunch of other folkie favorites from
those idealist years. His older sister Gwen used to make fun of such gushing
sentimentality but he himself listened intently as the familiar sounds drifted
upstairs. Sometimes, too, he’d hear his mother’s voice humming along, never
totally in tune, as she wiled away the long evening hours. She was still more or
less sane at that time, he remembers, and his father, forever away on active duty,
still chose to come home occasionally.
• • •
The soprano finishes her number and Merle Chadwick leads the applause as he
steps back onto the set.
“Thank you, Cecilia,” he says, resuming his onair persona. He seems to be
showing no ill effects from the relapse and chooses to provide no further
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explanation to the studio audience. It’s as if it never happened. “Thank you, that
was truly inspiring and a fine introduction to our chosen subject for today, the
subject of grace...”
He turns directly to the camera as it closes in from the wide shot to a more
meaningful headandshoulders framing.
“Now what exactly is grace, my friends? What does it mean? Doesn’t it just
sound to you like one of those oldfashioned, antiquated ideas that no longer
seems to have any place in our modern society? Webster’s defines grace as
‘virtue, kindness, politeness,’ all qualities which I know you’ll agree are sadly
lacking these days but which we ohsodesperately need. Now if you pause for a
moment and consider these words, I’m sure that, like me, you’ll recognize
something familiar in there. For isn’t that exactly what our Lord Jesus Christ was
all about? Virtue, kindness, politeness... isn’t that exactly the way he behaved, the
way he spoke? Wasn’t it by the very grace of God that he lived? In fact, doesn’t
the Bible tell us that Jesus was the very first personification of ‘Amazing Grace’
with everything he did? As we read in First Corinthians: ‘The grace of the Lord
Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with
you all...’”
• • •
“Mr. Olmstead? Denise Hillier, we spoke on the phone. Sorry to have kept you
waiting.”
She’s a tall woman in her midtwenties, eager to please and very correctly attired
in a green shift over a candystriped blouse, this in noticeable contrast to the way
Adam himself is turned out, with his turtle neck, easyfit cords and favorite
herringbone jacket, the one with the worn leather patches on the sleeves. Even if
she’s dissuaded by his unlikely appearance, however, the young woman is far too
courteous ever to acknowledge it, her face just filled with wellscrubbed niceness
as she guides him into the elevator, chatting amiably about the weather.
The fourth and topmost floor looks just like any other executive bureau with its
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wood paneling and plush carpeting, yet the atmosphere is somehow more low
key, as if this is a more sacred kind of office work they’re conducting, and the
only noise comes from the soft background whirr of copy equipment and the
discrete warble of phones. A long walk along the hallway leads them to the
corner suite.
The young woman taps politely. “Mr. Eberhardt? Mr. Olmstead from CNN.”
A broad, heavyset man quits his spreadsheet application and rises up from
behind his solid teak desk. “Mr. Olmstead, a pleasure. Welcome to the Ministry.”
Like Merle Chadwick, he too wears a white shirt but his is more crumpled, an
oxford buttondown, worn with a peacock silk tie over dark pants. The jacket is
still slung over the back of his monster swivel chair. He looks to be in his mid
sixties, with what might have been a good head of wavy silver hair if it hadn’t
taken on that smoker’s yellowbrown tint over the years. They shake hands and
he leads Adam over to a sitting area with a long leather couch and matching
winged chairs. The office covers significant square footage in the southwest
corner of the building, the wraparound windows giving out onto the flat
expanse of the rear car park. Beyond the fence, barely perceivable through the
rain mist, is farmland and somewhere in the distance must be the ridgeline of the
Adirondacks but today it’s impossible to tell. “Grab a seat, grab a seat. Can we
organize some coffee or anything?”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” says Adam. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem,” Jesse tells him as they both ease themselves down. “Had
something of a minor delay ourselves this morning, did Denise tell you? Yeah,
small incident with the Reverend’s health. Nothing serious, a little shortness of
breath is all. It’s happened before. I wanted to postpone the session but he
wouldn’t hear of it. Still insists on doing the thing in front of a live audience
every Sunday morning. Stubborn as a mule sometimes... but I guess that’s what’s
kept him going all these years.” He offers a throaty laugh, undoubtedly a residue
of his smoking days. It makes his thick shoulders heave and his jowls shake.
“Anyways, glad to have you with us. Have to say that’s a fine product you do,
some slick package.”
“Thanks, we put a lot of effort into it.”
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“I’ll bet. I caught that one you did not so long ago...”
“’The Secrets of Mysticism,’” replies Adam.
“Right, right, nice show. What kind of audience would something like that pull
in?”
“Well, audits say the slot averaged about twelve and change worldwide but that
can be misleading. The numbers tend to spike a lot around news time.”
Jesse Eberhardt recognizes the attempt at modesty but nevertheless puts out with
a deep sigh. “Twelve million, myohmy. We could sure move some airtime with
that.” He pauses now, almost in quiet recognition of how far the Ministry’s own
ratings have declined from the levels they once enjoyed in their prime; but that
was several decades back and times have changed. “So…” he says, hauling
himself back to the present. “What’s on your mind? You fixing to reveal all our
secrets?”
Adam allows a gentle smile. While Merle Chadwick may be the guiding light of
the Ministry, the financial side of the enterprise is very much the brainchild of
this man here, Jesse Eberhardt, and he’s nobody’s fool. Sure, he puts on a good
act trying to come across as the hayseed amateur out here in the boonies but he’s
hardly the first to play that game.
“Well, as you’re aware,” says Adam, “based on that particular show, my company
has been approached by the network to consider a series focusing on religion in
all its forms. Our working title is ‘Faith Vision.’”
Jesse responds by nodding that enormous head of his and rolling the name
around his mouth as if testing it out. “‘Faith Vision...’ Yeah, not bad. Not what I’d
have come up with but not bad.”
“It’ll be kind of a middlebrow approach, respectful but not too heavy and not
too much commentary. Mostly, we’ll be using the participants’ own words to
thread the images. Right now we’re on track for a one hour pilot based on
evangelism and, well, as I mentioned on the phone, we’d be honored to feature
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the Merle Chadwick Ministry.”
“Well, that’s very gratifying, Mr. Olmstead. I know I speak for all of us when I
say it’d be a real privilege.”
“Our initial thinking is maybe to highlight the continuity aspect... you know, how
you’ve managed to keep the same message in a changing environment, that kind
of thing. I mean, what is it now, over forty years? That’s some record.”
“Been a long time, that’s for sure. Any thoughts on where you’d like to start?”
“Well, I’m just not sure I can give you any kind of an answer right now. Maybe
what I’d like to do first, if it’s all right with you, is just nose around for a while.
Chat with some people, watch a few tapes, try to get a handle on the place.”
“No problem, make yourself at home. What kinda crew you got coming in?”
“Not too many. We’re mostly digital these days so we can stay pretty lean…
camera, sound, a few roadies. We’ll try real hard not to get in anybody’s hair.”
“Well, I appreciate that," says Jesse, tapping at his watch with his forefinger as if
making a point about how late it’s getting. “Expect you’ll want to get down see
the rest of the taping.”
Adam nods. It’s the reason he organized this first visit on a Sunday. “If it’s no
trouble.”
“What we’re here for.” Jesse Eberhardt climbs to his feet, lumbers his big frame
over to the desk and punches one of the dozen buttons on his phone system
while continuing the conversation. “You need any equipment, any facilities, all
you have to do is ask, okay?” There’s a tap on the door and Denise Hillier
reappears in response to the summons, as prim and attentive as before, the very
essence of the executive assistant. “Denise, how about taking Mr. Olmstead down
to studio control, let him see what we do around here.”
• • •
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The light above the door glows red to signify that taping is in progress but
Denise Hillier ignores it, turns the handle gently and surreptitiously ushers
Adam inside. She puts a finger to her lips, something of a patronizing gesture
considering his occupation. He’s not exactly a stranger to the world of video
production.
In front of them is the central complex of studio control, giving out through thick
panoramic windows onto the large main set where Merle Chadwick is just about
winding up his sermon. To one side, a wall of active monitors displays the eight
camera positions, while other broad arrays accommodate the master boards for
lighting, sound, graphics and the rest; to the other side, behind sliding glass
doors, is the floortoceiling bank of an aircooled mainframe. Adam counts up to
half a dozen technicians, all of them as fresh and wholesome as the young
woman standing next to him; a far cry from the grungy beings normally engaged
by his own production company up in Toronto.
“Mr. Olmstead, this is Paul Geller, our executive producer.”
The man offers a quick handshake. “Yeah, hi.” He’s used to all kinds people
passing through but he’s obviously not keen on chitchat when he’s got a show to
run, even when he learns his guest is with CNN.
• • •
“So for this, and for all our great gifts, O Lord, we give thanks unto thee today
and forever, and from all of us here in your most humble congregation, we say a
great and glorious... Amen.”
At this, Merle Chadwick raises his head from profound contemplation and opens
up into a broad smile for the camera. “And now, we’d like to call on the lovely
Cecilia to sing for us again if she would. My friends, Cecilia Grenville…”
He stretches out his arm to introduce her but as he does so, his face turns blank,
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his knees buckle and without a sound, he collapses under his own weight,
sinking to the floor of the set. He doesn’t move, he just lies there with his limbs
splayed out and for a moment or two there’s just silence then a shocked verbal
reaction from the congregation as Cecilia Grenville rushes over in her long dress
and heels. Bernie Taff is immediately there too, as are members of the choir and
several incoming stage hands.
• • •
Adam looks around to find some reaction up here in studio control but the
situation seems to be already in hand. The curtain has once again been activated
to separate the prone form of Merle Chadwick from the stunned congregation,
with the veteran Bernie positioned in front of it so he can play his increasingly
familiar role of reassurance. The private physician called in for the earlier seizure
is still here, still on standby, and when summoned, he lopes his way through the
melee, bag in hand and stethoscope at the ready, followed closely by a pair of
paramedics wheeling in some mobile electronic equipment.
“C’mon, guys, make way, make way,” Paul Geller is saying into his facemike.
“Jimmy, you read me? Clear some space, would you? Give ’em room to work.”
The view becomes partially obstructed as the medical team crouches around the
patient, a mass of hidden activity. Seen through the glass, it’s almost like the
events are unreal and Adam feels like he’s watching some melodrama on a big
screen. There appears to be an attempt to restimulate the heart, then another, but
after that, nothing: just a prolonged stillness which continues in its uncertainty.
Finally, he catches a glimpse of the doctor just in time to see a definitive shake of
the man’s head.
Adam looks over at a frozen Denise Hillier who’s seen it too and then at the crew,
gazing out expressionless from behind their consoles. They’re very aware of
what’s happening but it’s too much, too profound for them to contemplate, and
for a moment the only visible reaction comes from a battleweary Paul Geller,
who raises his eyebrows and then breathes out a long sigh.
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• • •
Four floors above, Jesse Eberhardt picks up the direct line from the studio. “Yes,
Paul…” When he hears the news, he sits back heavily in his swivel chair and puts
a finger and thumb to his eyes. He’s been expecting this for a while but now that
it’s actually happened, he’s not sure what to think. For the moment his mind is
numb. “Yes, all right, thank you Paul,” he says quietly. “I’d better call Evelyn.”
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2
“Since when was genius respectable?” Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The cemetery of St. Gabriel rests placidly on the damp slopes overlooking the
distant Lake Champlain. It’s upscale as such places go but it doesn’t seem like it
on the afternoon that Merle Chadwick is interred. While the nurtured gardens
are glorious in summer, the lawns on this day are a sodden yellowbrown and the
designer shrubs look thin and meager.
The very last to leave the gravesite is the deceased’s daughter, Evelyn, just
twentyeight years old and the only remaining family member; but instead of
walking away with the other mourners, she stays behind for a while to rummage
through a mixed swirl of memory fragments, some good but most not so good, a
resentment so deep it can’t even be assuaged by his death. A couple of yards
away to the left of where she stands, an elaborately carved stone marks the final
resting place of her mother: “Nancy Miriam Chadwick nee Grosvenor of blessed
memory.” And only now does the emotion start to register. It’s not so much for
her father as for her mother, for all the abuse the woman suffered in silence,
multiplied by the hypocrisy of this extravagant block of marble he erected in her
name.
After a while, she turns instinctively to find someone, anyone, with whom she
can share the depth of these thoughts but it’s a vain quest. Who could there
possibly be? Apart from the workman with his shovel, the only people left are
way back along the gravel path: Jesse Eberhardt and that visitor he’s got with
him, the one from CNN, collars turned up and engaged in conversation as they
wait for her. She looks once more at her father’s grave and sees the thick, claylike
soil being dumped in. Each load lands with an unceremonious thud, a somehow
fitting finale, and she walks slowly away.
“Evelyn, did you meet Adam Olmstead?” Jesse asks her when she joins them.
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“Yes, we met earlier,” she replies, as all three begin walking back the way they
came, with Evelyn in the center matching her step with that of her two escorts.
Turning her head slightly towards Adam, she says: “It was nice of you to stay for
the funeral.”
“It was a fine service. I only wish I could’ve gotten to know your father.”
“Do you?” She’s about to say something else but decides against it. The pause
drags out as they regain the asphalt and for a while the only sound is their feet
on the soaked surface.
It’s Jesse whose voice finally breaks through. “Mr. Olmstead was up here to
feature us on his show.”
“Yes, I know,” she answers. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Well, about that,” says Jesse. “We were wondering if it might not still be
possible. Turn it into some kind of tribute. Would that be right, Mr. Olmstead?”
Adam hesitates before making a reply. He’s reluctant to talk about it, as if it
wasn’t really his idea to bring it up; that it might not be in the best of taste right
now. “Was just an idea,” he says, attempting to defuse the notion.
Jesse, however, prefers to press on, as if it’s a way of keeping the memory alive,
today of all days. “We were thinking you might like to make an appearance,
Evelyn. I’ve a feeling your father would have appreciated that.”
“Me?”
“Sure, a few recollections, what it’s all meant to you over the years, that kind of
thing.”
“What it’s all meant to me?” she repeats, incredulous. “What do you want me to
say? That I believe in all that nonsense?”
Her unsubtle honesty has a jarring effect and instead of paying respect to the
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deceased, it creates a rift in the atmosphere, obliging them to continue in an
uneasy silence until they reach the treelined avenue that leads to the car park.
Most of the vehicles have already left and all that remains are the funeral home’s
black limousine plus Adam’s wellused wagon. As they approach, the driver of
the limo hurriedly adjusts his peaked cap and emerges to open the rear door for
Evelyn.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she says to Adam before she steps in. “I shouldn’t have said
that. It’s a good idea what you’re doing but I really don’t think you want me
involved.” She tries another smile but it doesn’t work too well, so she decides to
cut her losses by shaking hands and then sliding quickly into the car’s plush
interior.
From the other side, Jesse offers a final wave to Adam but makes no comment as
he eases his weighty frame in beside her. Once they’re underway, however,
Evelyn can’t help glancing at him.
“You want me to do this, don’t you?” she says quietly.
“Might be a nice gesture,” he replies, “if you’re up to it.”
She’s known Jesse ever since she was a toddler and she fully understands that his
main preoccupation right now has to be what to do about the Ministry; whether
to let it die along with its star or to revamp and revive it in some other fashion.
With his majority ownership, he has the choice and an upcoming segment on
CNN would at least allow him to keep his options open for a time. For her part,
she feels no undue loyalty towards the show, none whatsoever, yet the guilt of
her earlier reaction is still weighing on her.
Ah yes, she thinks, her dear old friend: guilt. It was everpresent throughout her
teenage years and there’s still more than a residue even today. She believes it may
be the one thing at which religion truly excels.
“Fine,” she says at last. “Fine, all right, ask him to call me.”
• • •
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The morning after the funeral, Evelyn Chadwick goes through her usual routine,
the rituals familiar since childhood: the same brand of toothpaste, the same
achingly hot shower and the same sequence for dressing. She concludes with an
unflattering wriggle as she pulls on freshly laundered jeans, while from across
the room, her mottled cat watches through halfclosed eyes.
“What’re you looking at?” she says to him. Often when she’s alone with the
animal, she maintains an ongoing dialogue as if he’s some nimblewitted
companion, fully capable of appreciating the most cynical observations about the
Ministry as well as her own esoteric world of quantum physics; but on this
occasion her voice just falls flat as if it can’t sustain itself in the morbid
atmosphere and she curtails any discussion before it’s even begun.
Nothing seems normal now that her father’s gone. There’s an oppressive
negativity that permeates the air, as if he’s still debating whether to leave or just
stay around and haunt the place forever.
She secures the zipper, then stands by the mirror for a few seconds to review a
physique that’s still reasonably fit but in her view, unremarkable: lean torso, wiry
limbs and a long neck, topped with a sallow face, graygreen eyes and short
cropped hair a shade of dirty rust was the way she described it back at school
but she never had any urge to change it. Color from a bottle just didn’t seem to
occur to her. It’s part of the image she has of herself, more functional than
attractive; but even that qualifier is questionable at this point in her life. She only
functions as long as her brain is up to speed and right now, it’s hardly registering
on the scale. That’s where the damage is, inside her head, a seismic fault line
having shifted her mental tectonics. It’s not just her father’s death, it’s much more
than that, so much that she can hardly begin to reconcile it all.
When she gets downstairs she’s surprised to find that her father’s help, Mrs.
Dimitri, has already arrived, punctual as always. Yesterday, it was tears at the
gravesite but today it’s back to work, cleaning and tidying as if she hasn’t fully
realized that it’s all come to an end.
“Morning,” says Evelyn as she passes by, but the only answer from Mrs. Dimitri
18
is a reluctant nod.
They never did get along too well but Evelyn doesn’t care, not any more, not after
she finally figured out that the woman was loyal to her father and to nobody else.
Continuing like this must be her way of showing respect, of honoring his
memory; either that or she still needs the money.
Evelyn heads through to the kitchen and wonders whether to go to the effort of
firing up the imported cappuccino machine, one of her few material
contributions to the household. This is a rambling cottage of brick and timber,
full of heavy colonial furniture, and such a shiny piece of equipment was not
made for this part of the world. It was made for somewhere in the blinding sun,
somewhere like Amalfi or Santorini, with white buildings overlooking an ocean
of deep turquoise. If she ever had a dream for herself, it was to live there by the
Mediterranean, a lazy, cafésociety type of life, full of emigré intellectuals and
philosophical conversation, open and freeranging, capable of accepting all
manner of fresh new ideas.
No, she decides, no cappuccino today. She can’t cope with such romantic notions
right now and opts for her old favorite, hot chocolate. It has to made perfectly
though, stirred until all the powder dissolves and it’s totally smooth. She's very
fussy about that, an eccentric habit like so many others she’s carried with her
since childhood. Her analyst once characterized her behavior as “obsessive
compulsive” but she unilaterally rejected that diagnosis and stopped going. That
too, however, is typical behavior and she knows it’s part of her problem. Anytime
she doesn’t like something, she tries to escape. She originally went to Princeton to
escape the claustrophobia of religion and she came back to escape the
straightjacket of science but now there’s nothing left of either of them. The
emptiness stretches towards infinity.
Meanwhile there are practicalities to consider: what she wants to do about this
house, for example, not to mention the forty percent share of the Merle Chadwick
Ministry she now inherits as the only close relative. Her grandparents are
deceased and her father was the sole surviving child. He had a brother, Cyrus,
but he drowned in a boating accident before Evelyn was born; and there were
some distant cousins, too, but they all migrated out to Minnesota when she was
young and never came back. It’s possible they couldn’t stand her father either.
19
Maybe the best thing would be to just sell up and go back to Princeton, she’s
thinking. When all’s said and done, maybe she should simply crawl back to her
tenured womb and plead for academic redemption. True, her early reputation as
a wunderkind has been put to rest and her meteoric rise summarily aborted but
perhaps her contrite acceptance of such a stigma might be a sign of newfound
maturity, a bit like the way those old guys who lose a presidential election are
afterwards referred to as “statesmen.” It’s an interesting thought, a different
angle of reappraisal, but before she can put her mind to it, she’s interrupted by
the front door chime, followed a second later by the descending whine of the
vacuum as Mrs. Dimitri goes to answer it. The visitor, whoever it is, has a male
voice but Evelyn can’t quite make it out.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asks when he finally appears in the doorway.
She recognizes Adam Olmstead, here for their scheduled appointment. She’d
almost forgotten. “No, no, not at all… I didn’t realize the time.” She’s a little
embarrassed and begins fingering the single gold strand she wears around her
neck. It was her mother’s but touching it has become an affectation and she stops
selfconsciously, suddenly aware of the busybody presence of Mrs. Dimitri still
hovering right behind him.
In response, the woman just looks suspiciously from one to the other,
undoubtedly wondering what all this is about: why a strange man would be
calling here this morning. “I do upstairs now,” she says, trying to feign
disinterest. Then she unplugs her appliance, picks it up in her rawboned hands
and leaves, somehow managing with her body language to make it seem like a
rebuke.
Evelyn is not unhappy to see her go. “Please, come through,” she says to the
visitor. “What can I get you? Coffee?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine, thanks.”
“I’m having hot chocolate.”
“Okay, that’d be good,” he replies easily and finds himself a tall stool by the
20
central counter. “Nice place.”
“It’s a place. More my father’s taste than mine...” She’s about to add a comment, a
cheap throwaway about how she and her father didn’t agree on much but she
retreats in time, leaving the unfinished thought to survive or die on its own
merits. She knows she should really try to keep her feelings in check after the
display at the cemetery and she’s still trying to think of how she can take up the
conversational slack when the cat comes to her rescue like a hero, padding his
way in to investigate the stranger.
“You’re honored,” she says. “He’s not usually this sociable.”
“What’s his name?”
“Shroedinger.”
“Really? That’s pretty funny.”
“You know physics?”
“No,” he says, followed by a shy grin, “but I thought I’d better do enough
homework to impress you.”
She returns a minimal smile as she gets busy making the beverage. The activity
allows her head to drift for a moment and a mental snapshot appears of the time
she reprieved the cat from death row at the local animal society. As a sixteen
yearold prodigy, she’d just been accepted at Princeton and thought the animal
would be good company at her new school. The name itself was actually
suggested by a fellow student and originates from the Austrian physicist, Erwin
Shroedinger, who once proposed a deliberately absurd idea for a quantum
experiment using a cat. The concept itself was only in jest, yet at the same time it
was scientifically valid and the notion of “Shroedinger’s Cat” went on to become
famous as a mindbending exercise for generations of undergraduates.
“I guess you’ll be heading back soon.”
The voice from across the counter interrupts Evelyn’s thoughts and she forces
21
herself to return to reality, or at least this current rendition of reality. “What, to
Princeton?” There’s a pause as she considers what answer she can give him, if
any. “I’m... not sure.” Then because it sounds so stupid she feels the need to
expand on the comment. “That is, I’m not sure I’m going back.”
“A sabbatical?”
The ecclesiastical origins of the word amuse her but it’s a private joke and she
doesn’t bother to explain. “I don’t know yet,” she says as she hands him the
steaming mug.
“Feel like telling me about it? Not that it’s any of my business, I know.”
His understated manner has the effect of making it all sound very matteroffact,
as if it’s no big deal at all.
“Not much to tell,” she replies in kind. “We had something of a disagreement...
me and the rest of Princeton. They thought one way, I thought another, simple as
that.” She looks at him, wondering if he’ll be satisfied with such an abbreviated
answer. Then after another moment of awkwardness, she once again relents and
the words just seem to come tumbling out of her loneliness before she can
prevent them. “You know, they gave me everything,” she says, almost to herself.
“They put me in charge of a team, gave me resources, computer time, whatever I
needed. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea how seriously
they take quantum study down there? They have a reputation going all the way
back to Everett and before that, Feynman... Hell, even Einstein himself was there.
And all I had to do to be a part of it was to buy in, to accept the party line, to
follow the doctrine. That was the condition but it didn’t quite work out like that.
Oh, it was okay for a while as long as I still had stars in my eyes but then I had
the gall to develop my own thesis, so I became the upstart, the troublemaker...”
Her voice fades away as she realizes that what began as a casual response has
turned into some kind of rant. Well, tough luck, she thinks. That’s what happens
when you come calling on Evelyn Chadwick. The attitude’s a given and mood
swings are part of the package, take it or leave it, no refunds.
“So what happens now?” he asks her.
22
“Who knows? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe I sit here and become an old
maid… or maybe I’ll just go down there and take the whole place out.” The
words that come out of her mouth are provocative but he doesn’t seem shocked
at all, as if he can see right through it all.
“Is that a likelihood?” he says in the same quiet tone.
“I don’t know, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
She sees him nod but he says nothing else and they each remain within their own
thoughts, he perched on the stool and she standing with her feet crossed, leaning
up against the fitted cupboards. The cat has long since disappeared.
Eventually she says “Is this what you really want to talk about? I thought your
subject was religion.”
“I kind of get the feeling you don’t believe in religion.”
“What I don’t believe,” she says, “is that people like my father have any special
credentials to teach morality.”
“Ah.”
Adam Olmstead gazes down at the mug in his hand and once again they indulge
in this strange standoff, this game of hesitancy with neither wishing to disturb
the other. For her part, Evelyn knows very well the problem lies with her and that
he’s just trying to do his job.
“Okay,” he says looking up, “so let’s talk about what you do believe in.”
“Like what?”
“How about your science? Tell me about that.”
“My science?”
“Sure, might help us get to know each other, you know, so I can understand
23
where you’re coming from.”
She shrugs. “What do you want me to say about it?”
“I don’t know. How about explaining your thesis? The one you were working
on.”
“You want me to explain it? Just like that? How much do you actually know about
quantum physics?”
“You mean apart from Shroedinger’s Cat? Close to zilch. Tell you what, why
don’t you just assume I’m an idiot and take it from there?”
She offers him a polite smile but she’s not sure that what he’s asking is even
possible. He’s certainly not an idiot, far from it, but she’s just not used to
speaking in layman’s language. Her thesis is groundbreaking to put it mildly and
in other circumstances she’d respond in front of a whiteboard with a marker in
her hand, instantly ready to scrawl her way through an hour’s worth of
equations. To do it like this, over chocolate in a kitchen, somehow seems almost
infantile in its silliness. But then again, it was the great Rutherford himself who
advised his students never to trust a scientific concept they couldn’t explain to a
barmaid; and Lederman went one better, saying that if a basic idea is too
complicated to fit on a Tshirt, it’s probably wrong. It all makes her think she
should at least try; and besides, what else does she have to do today, except
maybe tell it all to the cat?
“Okay, why not?” she says to him, but it’s more like a conclusion to her own
internal debate. The only question is where to start. “It’s known as the
‘EncephaloCosmological causality,’” she says eventually. “I know, it’s a mouthful
even for us, so we usually just call it ‘EC’ for short, same as my initials. Ever
heard of it?”
A brief shake of the head. “Sorry. Should I have done?”
“‘Encephelo’ as in appertaining to the brain and ‘cosmological’ as in... well, you
know, the cosmos. It was written up in the Times,” she adds, making it sound like
a throwaway to avoid the appearance of bragging. “Gave me my fifteen minutes
24
of fame. You didn’t see it?”
“Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Well, as the word ‘causality’ suggests, what it’s all about is a potential cause and
effect condition between the human brain and the substance of the universe.”
“You mean a connection? As in some kind of mental link?”
“Basically.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, I know, that’s what everyone says... but in the world of physics, ‘wow’ is not
always complimentary. That single word ‘wow’ is the reason I may not be going
back.”
She’s still not sure how much she wants to get into it all but it’s too late. She’s
already piqued his curiosity and he’s looking at her, waiting for her to continue.
The problem, she knows all too well, is that once she starts she’s going to have to
burrow into it, like Alice going down the rabbit hole. She just hopes she doesn’t
lose him somewhere along the dark passageways.
“Of course, when we talk about a connection,” she says, “we’re talking way down
at the quantum level.”
“Of course.”
She notes the gentle sarcasm. “Know what the word ‘quantum’ actually means?”
“Something microscopic?”
“Not even close. What ‘quantum’ means is the smallest amount of something it’s
possible to have.”
“And how small would that be?”
25
Her immediate instinct is to blurt out some of the numbers she used to throw
around, tentotheminus this and tentotheminus that, but she realizes he
probably has no frame of reference for such arcane abstractions. For a few long
seconds, she searches along the channels of her memory and finally emerges
with an old analogy she once heard. It’s not perfect but for now it’ll have to do.
“You know what an atom is?”
“Sure... at least I think so. Basic building block, right? High school chemistry.
Elements are made up of molecules which in turn are made up of atoms.”
“Okay, good. So what would you say if I told you that the size of a quantum
particle compared to an atom is about the same as an atom compared to the
entire solar system?”
He has to think about it, to try and imagine the relative scale. “I’d say that’s
pretty damn small.”
“In fact it’s so small that when we get down to that level, we use a special
measure called the ‘Planck length.’ Ever hear of that? It’s named after Max
Planck, one of the first pioneers in the field. In essence, it describes the point at
which all our normal physical laws start breaking down, where nothing we know
about seems to work the way it should. At that level, everything begins to come
unglued... gravity, relativity, everything we take for granted. In our own physics
shorthand, we tend to divide the whole thing up into what we call the ‘classical
world’ and the ‘quantum world.’ In the classical world, Einstein’s laws of space
time hold true and it all pretty much makes sense, or as much as it ever did. But
when we get down and start poking around at the Planck length... Well, we find
some very strange things going on, to say the least.”
“Like what?”
“Like what?” she repeats. How is she supposed to summarize the entire
phenomenon? Rutherford and Lederman be damned, she’s thinking. They never
had to explain ‘quantum weirdness,’ which is exactly how it’s known by both
scientists and academics. There’s just no other term more appropriate. Even the
influential Dane, Niels Bohr, a pragmatist if there ever was one, once remarked
that anyone who’s not shocked by quantum science doesn’t understand it. And in
26
the end, that’s what makes this conversation she’s trying to have so daunting. It’s
as if there’s a need to set it up first, to prepare people for something that just
doesn’t relate to their everyday existence. “You won’t believe me if I tell you,” she
says in reply to his question.
“Why not?”
“Because noone ever does.”
“Ah, but what if I promise to try?”
She’s a little thrown by this breezy attitude of his and can’t really decide if it’s his
personality or just an interview technique. She picks up a spoon and stirs her
drink again. It has to be smooth, very smooth.
For the time being, she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay, fine,
but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She takes a long breath. Even now she’s not
certain what she’s getting herself into with this. “The point I’m making is that at
the quantum level, nothing seems logical. When you compare it to ordinary
common sense, it’s completely counterintuitive.”
“In what way?”
“Well, for a start, the kind of phenomena we find down there exist in what we
might call a probability matrix, which basically means they’re in a state of flux.”
“And in English?”
She looks at him, searching for more common language. “What I’m trying to say
is that they seem to be in many states at once.”
“Okay...”
“But here’s the thing... We don’t know which state they’re going to be in until we
try to observe them.” She can see now that she’s lost him as she feared she would,
so she breathes a sigh and decides to try again. “All evidence seems to suggest
that it’s the very act of observation that enables the decision. They act like waves
27
and then the moment we detect them, they behave like particles. It’s almost
like… what can I say? It’s almost like they know when we’re watching them.”
“They know when we’re watching them?”
“That’s what it seems like.”
“What are they, alive?”
“No, of course not.”
He opens up into another grin but this time it’s not shy at all, it’s broad and
involuntary, full of his own natural humor. “Anyone told Stephen King about
this?”
She attempts a smile just for the sake of it but his response was predictable. It’s
the same way most students react when they first discover what goes on in this
minuscule madhouse. They try to reconcile it with normal experience and they
resolve what they can’t accept by making jokes. “Glad you’re enjoying it,” she
says.
“So what’s going on?”
“Nobody’s entirely sure but it’s been proven countless times. And it gets worse. If
you look at one particle, the change affects all particles coming from the same
source, no matter where they are. Even across galaxies. You’ve heard the
expression ‘quantum leap?’ Well, that’s where it comes from. But here’s what’s
really bizarre. The change is instantaneous. Not a millisecond, not a nanosecond,
but instantaneous. There’s no time delay at all.”
She sees him nod once again but she can also see that the sheer importance of
what she’s telling him has failed to register. She can see it in his eyes. It’s
something of an essential point, however, so in the spirit of this whole unlikely
conversation they’re having, she decides to subdue her normal impatience.
“If the change is instantaneous,” she says, “it means the leap effect is traveling
faster than the speed of light, which according to Einstein’s relativity is totally
28
impossible. Nothing can travel faster than the speed of light.”
“So what does that mean? Relativity’s wrong?”
“No, no, relativity’s right. It has to be, it’s pretty much at the core of everything
we learned in the twentieth century. The problem is that it only seems to be right
in the ‘classical world.’ In the ‘quantum world’ it means squat. Even Einstein
himself didn’t believe in the quantum leap when he first heard about it. You
know what he called it? ‘Spooky action at a distance.’ I’m not kidding. Isn’t that
great? Poor old guy spent the rest of his life trying to accommodate it but he
never could.”
“You’re telling me even Einstein didn’t understand it?”
“No, he understood it all right, he just couldn’t explain it. His entire universe just
breaks down at that level. It’s the greatest paradox in all of physics... and if
there’s anything physicists hate, it’s a paradox. Drives us completely nuts.”
“Didn’t I read someplace that a paradox is just a grandiose thought in embryo?”
“That’s cute.”
“I think it was Kierkegaard said that. Or was it Russell? Was somebody, anyway.
So what’s the answer?”
“The answer?”
“To the paradox.”
Again she thinks about what to say. “Over the years, there’ve been all kinds of
theories,” she replies. “‘Interpretations,’ we call them, and they’re like flavor of
the month, you know? Sometimes we like one, sometimes we like another... and
some of them have been pretty wild, let me tell you, certainly from a layman’s
perspective. Multiple dimensions, parallel universes, backwards time, that kind
of thing… I’m serious. In fact, one of the more promising efforts puts forward the
notion that at the quantum level, the entire universe is holistic, everything
instantly linked together... which is fine as far as it goes. I mean, yes, it resolves
29
some key issues about how it all works but it still doesn’t answer the basic
question of why. Why does the quantum world exist in a state of flux until the
exact moment we choose to observe it? Well, I’m sorry, but to me that’s the most
critical issue of all, so I had the nerve to take it further and come up with my own
version... the Chadwick interpretation.”
“Your EC thing.”
“Yes, my EC thing. But that was the problem. To them I was too junior, too
inexperienced to have an interpretation, especially anything so radical. Or maybe
I was just too female. Whatever the reason, I was branded a heretic and for that I
had to be burned at the stake.” She stops here but she’s conscious of him
watching her, waiting to hear what the sacrilege was all about.
“Go on,” he urges.
For a moment or two, she matches his gaze, looking over at him from above the
rim of her mug. “Let’s say there’s some basis to the interpretation, okay? Let’s say
the universe is indeed linked holistically at the quantum level. But the human
brain is part of the same universe, isn’t it? Ergo, it must be linked the same way."
“The mental connection.”
“That’s right. Our species has a unique capacity for generating hypercomplex,
neurophysical impulses... what we normally call thought, perception, memory...
so we ourselves may be generating subconscious activity at the quantum level,
you see what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure. Are we talking about some kind of… I don’t know what you’d call
it… some kind of telepathy?”
She doesn’t answer directly because she dislikes words like that. They’ve become
misused, too full of preconceptions. This is science, not science fiction. “What
we’re talking about,” she says, “is the human brain, which on current evidence is
the most sophisticated organism in the universe... up to a hundred billion
neurons with ten thousand synapses between each of them. We don’t even know
for sure what goes on at the cellular level, never mind the quantum possibilities...
30
but the physics establishment prefers to avoid it, to pretend it’s not real physics.
At best, they leave it for medicine to sort out, as if it’s just another bodily function
like the stomach or the spleen, a part to fix when it goes wrong. At worst, they
dismiss the whole topic as nothing more than existentialism, to be discussed only
in the philosophy department. But what if the human brain is more profound
than that? What if it’s an active participant in the universe? What if it’s an agent
of change in its own right?”
She pauses to take a breath. “Anyway, that’s the theory,” she says, lowering the
intensity a notch. “But the real issue here is where it all leads. I mean, if our own
quantum activity is allowing us to make a subconscious connection, maybe we
can teach ourselves to do it consciously and then...” Instinctively, she holds back.
This is where she usually runs into trouble.
“And then?”
“What I was going to say is who knows what we can’t do? It’s an accepted fact
that we only use a small proportion of our mental capacity but if this thesis has
any validity at all, it means there’s almost no limit to our potential. Think of it. If
we can teach ourselves to interact consciously with the universe, we might even
be able... and I don’t say this lightly... to affect it at a more substantive level. Even
to control it in some way.”
“To control it?”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t that...?”
“What?”
“Well, scary. The idea of humans controling the universe?”
She knew she’d get that reaction. She always does. “Scary?” she says. “Sure, it’s
scary. We’re a scary species, that’s part of who we are. We could have used
nuclear power for peaceful purposes but no, we had to build bombs and it was
we scientists who built them. Listen, what can I say? The human brain is the
31
ultimate Pandora’s box.” Another smile but this time it’s empty, almost desolate,
as she completes the inevitable analogy. “Which, I guess, makes me the ultimate
Pandora.”
He doesn’t respond immediately and she can see that he’s trying to get his head
around the implications. It’s understandable. They’re enormous and that’s been
her problem. People can’t bring themselves to accept such a fundamental change
in their worldview. Their existing notions are too ingrained. All their lives
they’ve been led to believe that humans are nothing more than specks, totally
dwarfed in the great scheme of things. It’s what they’ve been taught ever since
they first looked up at the stars: first by religion with its almighty gods and then
by science with its almighty cosmos. Maybe that’s what the two subjects have in
common, she thinks, as if realizing it for the first time. Maybe that’s why she
seems to have such deeprooted problems with both of them.
“You really think it’s possible?” he asks her.
“Why? You think I’m out to lunch?”
He tries giving her a halfsmile but it fails. “No, of course not...”
“Et tu, Bruté?”
He looks at her sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says.
“No, that’s all right, what the hell. You asked what I was working on, so I told
you.”
She takes a moment to look at him, to wonder just how much she’s really
explained, but in some ways she’s not dissatisfied. Talking about it in such a basic
way was easier than she imagined and after a while the mental adjustments just
seemed to happen on their own.
Yet quantum mechanics is primarily a mathematical language and the truth is
that, in her own terms, she hasn’t even scratched the surface. There’s so much she
can’t even begin to describe and she drifts off again, becoming more and more
engrossed in her own set of emotions, a complex mixture of resentment and
32
regret plus a whole universe of selfpity. “Sometimes,” she says quietly, “I shut
my eyes and I’m still back there, you know? It’s like I’m still into it, like I never
really left. I wake up in the night with equations flashing in my head. It was, I
don’t know, like an adventure... no, that’s not the right word... more like some
kind of odyssey. Does that sound ridiculous?”
She trails off into a long silence as she lifts the mug and drains the last drop of
chocolate. It produces a brown mustache on her lip, which she wipes with a
paper towel she pulls from a large roll by the sink. She could have told him about
the screaming arguments, some of them even in the corridors, and that when she
was being ostracized it felt no different from the lepers they describe in the
Bible... “Unclean, unclean.” She could have told him about all of that but in the
end, what would be the point? She’s already said far too much and would prefer
this to be over, as if she’s outstayed her own welcome.
“Maybe you should tell me about your show,” she says. It’s her own awkward
attempt to expedite matters.
“I thought you’d already made up your mind about the show,” he replies, “or can
I dare to hope there’s a very slight ‘maybe’ tucked away in there somewhere?”
She turns her head and stares absently through the kitchen window. An expanse
of meadow leads past the outbuildings over to a distant wall of forest where the
occasional whitetail can be spotted but today it’s just stillness out there. Not even
the squirrels are about. There’s still no break in the sky, no color at all, just a
bland spectrum of midscale tones but then, for her, the quality of the view has
always been dictated more by her mood anyway; a sort of quantum causality all
its own.
“Dr. Chadwick?”
His voice reaches her from somewhere far removed and she has to force herself to
turn back.
“The show?” he says.
“What about it?”
33
“Any chance at all?”
“I don’t know,” she says vaguely. “It depends.”
He puts his own mug down on the counter and climbs stiffly off the stool. “Tell
you what,” he says, “I’m away for a day or two... promised I’d call in on the
family while I’m up here, you know how it is... so why don’t you think about the
whole thing and I’ll call you when I get back. Would that be okay? Maybe we
could have dinner or something, what do you say?”
“Dinner?” she says, more than a little surprised. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”
“I’m thinking nice food, nice atmosphere, I might be able to talk you into it.”
Yet more of that offbeat candor, she thinks. Is this how he gets people to do what
he wants, by letting them talk about themselves and then nailing them when
their defenses are down? She’s not certain what to make of it but she considers
the offer anyway. She doesn’t get too many, that’s for sure and besides, it’s not as
if she has anything else crowding her agenda. “If you like,” she replies. It’s not
exactly the most elegant acceptance but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Good, I’ll look forward to it.”
She escorts him to the front door and holds it open as he pulls on his field coat.
“Jesse tells me your show’s called ‘Faith Vision,’” she says as he steps outside.
“Does that mean you believe in it? Faith, I mean?”
“What, me personally?” This time the smile is accompanied by a shrug of his
own. “Not an easy question,” he replies. “I usually like to tell people I’m one of
life’s observers... but now you’re telling me observers can change things just by
looking at them, so I may have to amend that.”
She finds it an interesting reply, a compliment in a way. At least it proves he was
listening. She stands watching him leave until his wagon bounces out onto the
road and vanishes from sight. The fall breeze penetrates her sweater but she’s
content to breathe the outside air for a minute or two longer, thinking about the
34
unusual encounter. It was an odd experience talking about her work like that. He
knew nothing at all about the subject but he was responsive and that’s what
made it pleasant; plus, of course, he asked her to dinner, which makes her decide
she’s feeling a little better about herself.
Strange, she thinks, that it should occur so soon after she buried her father but
then again, perhaps it’s not so strange at all.
35
3
“Loss is nothing else but change.” Marcus Aurelius
“Hello Adam,” says Gwen as she opens the front door. She’s his older sister but
there’s no huge outpouring of sibling emotion. As always, she’s full of earnest
restraint, ever the anchor of the family. “Managed to find your way all right?” she
asks him, but she’s being laconic. This is where he grew up.
Even though it’s on the Canadian side of the border, the small town of
Lennoxville is less than a twohour drive from the Merle Chadwick Ministry. It’s
not pretty enough to be in the guidebooks but, then again, it’s not especially ugly
either. It’s just there, same as it’s always been, a quirk of history: a small English
speaking holdout in rural French Quebec. There are banks and bars, antique
stores and fast food outlets, the usual schizophrenic amalgamation, but what
holds it all together in this case is the longestablished Bishop’s University with
its steady annual influx from all across the country. The campus is not large, just
five thousand students plus faculty and staff, but it’s enough to serve as the
economic mainstay of the entire area and it’s here that both Gwen and her
husband Ralph still work: she as senior college librarian and he as professor of
applied mathematics. They find the measured way of life well suited to their
placid tastes, one of the key benefits being the mere ten minutes it takes to walk
from the redbrick lecture halls back through the village to their white clapboard
house.
Adam steps inside and follows his sister along the familiar hallway. As far as he
can make out, nothing very much has changed since the last time he stopped by.
The simple semidetached is not large but Gwen and Ralph managed to raise two
sons here. They've now grown up and gone their own ways but some of their
scuffmarks have been deliberately left on the dark wood floor as a keepsake. Also
living here for a while was Margaret, mother of Adam and Gwen, until Gwen
found it increasingly difficult to cope. It’s just not possible for a career woman to
36
maintain an effective suicide watch and the family reluctantly decided that
hospitalization was the only answer. That was about eight years ago and today,
the only visible reminder of their mother’s time here is a framed photo of her on
the hallway table, taken at a university picnic. She was holding a dahlia in her
hand and was so delighted with it that she smiled at Ralph taking the picture.
Now, every time Adam arrives, he takes a moment to lift the snapshot and gaze
at it, to look into those pale eyes and remember the person his mother once was.
“How is she?” he says, as he follows Gwen through to the kitchen at the back of
the house.
“Same as ever,” she answers. She’s had to bear the burden for most of her adult
life and the result seems to be a fatigue that reveals itself all too readily. “She
asked about you last week.”
“Really? Did you tell her I was coming?”
“No, I didn’t. I don’t do that any more.”
Adam nods. As far as the siblings are concerned, Gwen’s the stable one and he’s
the gadfly. Although he’s always taken care of the financial side of things,
including all the medical costs, he knows that because of his lifestyle and, yes, his
personality too, he’s been shamefully deficient when it comes to the more human
responsibilities like calling and visiting. Sometimes he’d promise to show up and
then some production delay or airline foulup would prevent him from doing so.
His record on that score has been far from pristine.
He watches his sister now as she busies herself with her plastic containers,
unwrapping the bean and potato salad lunch she already prepared for them in
advance. It’s so typical of Gwen. Then for a brief moment he’s reminded of the
morning he spent yesterday in that other kitchen at the Chadwick residence,
although why that should flash into his brain at this time he’s not certain. There’s
no comparison of course, this place being considerably more homely. Here
there’s no grassy acreage, no broad view of the forest and no cappuccino
machine either; but the most striking difference has nothing to do with property
and everything to do with the inhabitants: one woman complex and highly
strung, the other solid to a fault and completely reassuring.
37
“I thought we’d try and make it out there by three, all right?” This is Gwen, as if
confirming the getitdone practicality of her nature. She’s talking about their
planned trip over to the institute this afternoon.
“Whatever’s good for you,” replies Adam. Organizing himself around Gwen’s
schedule is the least he can do.
• • •
The Lower Canada Institute for Mental Health is housed in an ornate, Victorian
era building within its own extensive grounds: “an oasis” as the brochure calls it,
“a gentle retreat from a frenzied world.” Yet while its air of jaded comfort is an
attempt at normality, it’s hard to disguise the real purpose: the combination of
green uniformed staff plus a vaguely antiseptic atmosphere manage to
overwhelm any pretense that this is just a country retirement home.
Not much light enters from the still overcast skies but as they arrive, Adam
manages to spot the feeble figure in a winged chair on the far side by the tall
windows. “Over there,” he murmurs and they pass from the open lounge area
through to the greenery of the conservatory.
“Mom? Mom, it’s me,” says Gwen, leaning over. “I brought Adam… Mom?”
The seventyeight year old woman is still dozing and Adam touches her shoulder
as delicately as he can. She’s wearing a pink woolen sweater with matching
cardigan but she feels thin and fragile under his hand, as if she might break with
even the slightest amount of extra pressure. Her face is hollow and her hair, once
so lush, is now white and wispy; a far cry from the woman whose natural spirit
was once so carefree. She opens her eyes and blinks at him for a moment and at
first she seems to know who he is, but then she’s not sure and a look of panic sets
in as she turns her head towards Gwen.
“It’s okay, Mom, it’s just Adam. He’s here to see you.”
38
She looks back at her son, searching him with her eyes. “Adam…” she mumbles,
but all she’s doing is trying to repeat the word.
Then from somewhere else, a voice says: “Not one of her good days today.”
Both Gwen and Adam look to where it’s coming from and see a tiny woman
peering around from another winged chair about five yards away. She’s about the
same age as their mother but her inquisitive expression suggests that she’s much
more alert.
“Oh, hello Mrs. Dietz,” says Gwen. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Hi there,” adds Adam. He doesn’t recall meeting this woman before, although
Gwen seems to know her.
“She’s been like this for a while now,” says Mrs. Dietz. “Think it was the news.
Might have been the news that did it, that’s what I think.”
“What news is that?” asks Gwen, but Mrs. Dietz is in the process of getting up
and walking over. It takes all her concentration so Gwen waits until she’s sitting
with them, taking the fourth chair around the low wicker table. The foliage is
lush in here and Adam has to strain gallantly to move a potted plant out of her
way. “What news is that?” says Gwen again once she’s settled.
“Oh, the bad news. We had bad news, it was in the paper. I think it was yesterday
or was it the day before? No, it was the day before because Nora, that’s the nurse,
she had the day off and she was reading the paper. That’s when she told us the
bad news. That’s when it was.”
“Yes,” says Adam trying to remain patient, “but what was the news?”
“Oh well, we were all upset because we all liked him, such a nice man, a real
gentleman. You don’t find them like that any more. My Francis was like that
when he was alive, you know. ’Course, they used to call him Frank down at the
yard but I never liked that so I always called him Francis. That was the name he
was baptized with, so that was the name I always used.”
39
Gwen listens politely but is still anxious to find out what might have caused this
reaction in her mother, so she decides to try one last time. “The news, Mrs. Dietz?
We haven’t heard what it was, so maybe you can tell us. Can you?”
There’s a second or two during which the woman looks at her with a
disbelieving expression. “You haven’t heard? Oh my, you poor dear. Well, it’s that
nice man who was on TV... he died, you know.”
“Which man was that?”
“That nice man who was on. That Merle Chadwick.”
Adam and Gwen look at each other briefly. Now that it’s been explained, it
makes perfect sense. “They had cable installed,” mutters Gwen.
“He’s on TV every Sunday,” adds Mrs. Dietz. “Such a gentleman, but I never
liked his red tie. He wore a purple one once with a green stripe. That was nice.
But he died, you know. Nora told us. She said we’d still be able to see him though
because they make the TV show in advance. That’s right, isn’t it? They make all
the TV shows in advance, so they would have made some before he died, isn’t
that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” replies Adam. “Does my mother watch the show too?”
“Oh my, yes, we all do. Every Sunday, rain or shine, even the nurses when they’re
on duty. We all sit down and watch. Such a nice man.”
In a way, Adam is surprised at the idea of his mother doing something like that.
She never had the slightest interest in religion; but then he also realizes that he’s
obviously still thinking of her the way she used to be, not the way she is now.
Although the family was originally from Episcopalian stock, he can’t ever
remember celebrating any of the holidays as a youngster, never mind actually
attending church. Of course, like everyone else, they had a tree at Christmas and
hunted eggs at Easter; but in general they remained secular, or “devoutly”
secular as Gwen once called it, not even so much as a Bible in the house. Yet
Adam can easily appreciate the appeal of a man like Merle Chadwick in a place
like this and he’s sure his mother was no doubt just joining in with everyone else
40
as they gathered around the set on Sunday mornings. Not only was the man’s
manner totally in tune with this kind of audience but the gospel he conveyed was
essentially the type of hope they wanted to hear. In the simplest of terms, a belief
in the hereafter means there’s something to which they can all look forward.
“‘Good morning friends,’” quotes Mrs. Dietz now, repeating word for word the
show’s standard opening, “‘and welcome to another edition of “Sunday with
Merle Chadwick,” brought to you by this station and our fine sponsors.’ He died,
you know, did you hear that?”
“Yes,” says Gwen, “we heard.” But all her attention is still with her mother as she
runs her hand softly through the thin hair and tries to make her a little more
comfortable by adjusting the small pillow behind her neck; but the old woman
just looks blankly out at her from behind those pale eyes, unaware of anything.
“Mom?” says Adam, trying again. “This is Mrs. Dietz. You remember Mrs. Dietz?
She’s your friend.”
“Poor thing,” says Mrs. Dietz as she begins to get up out of her chair. “Think it
was the bad news.” As soon as she’s on her feet, she walks off a little unsteadily
without saying anything more, as if something else occurred to her and she has
to go do it immediately, whatever it is.
Once she’s gone, Adam and Gwen sit for a long time in the formal silence of the
place, watching the window as a few splattered drops turn into a light rain.
“Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” says Adam eventually.
“There’s no guarantee she’ll be any better,” replies Gwen. “She can be like this for
days, sometimes weeks.”
Adam knows that but feels obliged to remain upbeat and hopeful, at least as
much as he can. He holds his mother’s cool hand and dwells on the gift he might
have brought along. What he should have done, he’s thinking, is purchased a
copy of “Amazing Grace,” the same version she used to sing to. He should have
brought that plus a small player with earphones so she could listen in private.
Maybe it would have stirred some memories, put a little life back into her eyes –
41
but he didn’t think of it and now it’s too late. Instead, an echo of the famous
melody keeps channeling through his brain and he’s not sure how to make it
stop.
• • •
It’s early evening by the time they get back on the road and Gwen has to fill the
role of navigator, reminding her brother of roads he once knew by heart.
For his part, Adam is in quiet mode, discouraged at seeing their mother like that.
Each time he comes, he arrives hoping for the best but this afternoon she couldn’t
even acknowledge his existence. He steers his way carefully along the darkening
byways while straying huge distances within his own mental space, as if his
mind is connected like Evelyn Chadwick’s universe: to his sister, to his mother, to
the realm of quantum mechanics, to the kingdom of simple faith. The thoughts
shift and float, merging from one to the other, until from out of the endless spiral
something sparks and finally ignites: the flickering birth of a new concept.
“Didn’t Ralph once graduate in science?” he says.
Gwen is surprised by the question. “Not exactly,” she replies. “He took biology
for three years, if that’s what you mean, but then he switched. Decided he
couldn’t stand the sight of dead things anymore. Now he won’t even kill a spider
in the bathtub. Calls me in to do it instead. When I met Ralph, I turned into the
terminator.”
“Think he remembers anything?”
“Who ever knows what goes on in that head of his? You’ll have to ask him,
why?”
“Nothing, just an idea. Something I need to think about.”
He doesn’t volunteer any more than that and Gwen doesn’t bother probing. She’s
well used to her brother. He was like that when he was young too. He’d get
42
hooked on some project or other, perhaps something for school or a notion he
dreamed up on his own, and then his mind would be gone, oblivious to
everything until his need for exploration was satiated.
• • •
From his teddybear appearance and trim gray beard, Gwen’s husband Ralph is
exactly what anyone would expect him to be: a math teacher, a loyal spouse and a
reliable father of two boys. It’s only as a brotherinlaw that another side of him
shows through: a different, more eccentric side. Why Adam should have been
singled out for such an honor is not clear but, for some reason, Ralph seems to
regard him as a fellow manoftheworld, a kindred spirit with whom he can
indulge in a certain kind of traditional male bonding. Depending on the moment,
this might include some ribald hooker jokes he picked up online, an attempt at
political discussion on major themes like the decline of the left or the case against
free trade, or it might just be a wry anecdote about life at school. At such times,
he also exhibits an unusual fondness for Jamaican dark rum, which he always
takes neat and which he offers Adam this evening as an afterdinner tipple.
Gwen is already upstairs, having left the two men in the confines of what was
once the family dining room but is now a small library, with two easy chairs, a
small side table and several hundred volumes lining the walls. While Adam
makes his large frame comfortable, Ralph takes down the private bottle he keeps
tucked away behind the big thesaurus, fifth shelf up. Smart as he is, he’s
somehow convinced himself that his wife knows nothing about this secret stash,
even though such a circumstance would be logically impossible. Still, Adam
doesn’t mind playing the good sport and has always chosen to accept his
assignment as fellow conspirator with a certain fortitude. Over the years he’s
found that all he needs to do is smile painfully at the innuendos and promise
solemnly never to divulge any of the confidences to which he’s been entrusted.
“So, Adam...” says Ralph. He hands Adam the shot glass, then settles himself into
the other chair. “Gwen says you’re putting together a show about that evangelist
who died, the one on TV.”
43
“Supposed to be.”
“Why? Not going well?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. Now that he’s gone, none of it seems to fit together.
Truth is, it may be turning into the wrong kind of show for us... more of a
Biography thing, you know? Not the format I’m looking for at all. Plus, between
you and me, I’ve kind of got something else in mind, something I just came up
with. More in your area, really.”
“My area? You mean math?”
“No, no, before that, when you took science.”
“Oh my, now we’re going back a bit. Been a long time since I had anything to do
with science, Adam. But what’s science got to do with faith, may I ask? Should
have thought they were diametrically opposed.”
“I know, that’s the point, that’s the perception. The great battle royal… atheism
against religion, evolution against creation. Sets up a nice tension. But they’re a
lot closer than that, always have been, all the way back through history. For me,
that’s the story, right there, how they’ve always complemented each other.”
“Interesting pointofview,” says Ralph.
“Didn’t Einstein himself believe in God?”
“Yes, in a way, I suppose he did. So did lots of others, now you come to mention
it... Galileo, Newton... even Darwin. But of course, it’s all semantics. We’re not
really talking about the same God here. Scientists use the word ‘God’ freely but
they’re not necessarily talking about a Deity in the regular sense. What they
usually mean is something else entirely… you know, order instead of chaos,
intelligent design instead of mass confusion, that kind of thing.”
“You sound like you know something about it.”
“Who me? Metaphysics?” He chuckles at the idea. “No, I don’t think so. Way
44
beyond my expertise, I’m afraid. I’m a math teacher, Adam, nothing more. I
scribble some calculus on a board, I feel the hormones raging amongst the
students and I realize how old I’m getting. That’s about as far as it goes for me.”
All this time, Ralph has been busy swirling and sniffing his drink, a familiar
ritual before he actually takes a sip. “So how’d you come up with this science
thing anyway?”
“By accident really... I was with the guy’s daughter yesterday.”
“Which guy?”
Adam tries to hide a sigh. His conversations with Ralph are often like this. “The
guy we’re talking about,” he says. “The evangelist, Merle Chadwick. His
daughter’s a quantum physicist.”
“Ah yes, that’s right, his daughter... I’d forgotten. That would be the delightful
Evelyn.”
Adam is surprised. “You know her?”
“I know of her,” replies Ralph. The way he says it doesn’t make it sound like he’s
too impressed. “Came up to a conference at McGill a while back. Didn’t approve
of something or other and started complaining to all and sundry that Canada’s
like a Third World country. I think she even had words with the Dean at one
point. Didn’t exactly endear her to the faculty.”
“No, I can imagine. She told me she’s thinking of quitting.”
“You mean giving up physics?”
“I don’t know about that, but Princeton certainly. At least, that’s what she told
me.”
“Is that so? Well, I can’t say it’s any great shock. Not known to have what you
might call a high degree of tolerance, your Ms. Chadwick. Quite brilliant, or so
they say, but apparently she’s also imperious to the point of distraction. You ever
hear what they call her down there when she’s not around?” He laughs a little.
45
“‘God Herself...’ you know, because of her father. Never met her, of course, but I
even hear tell she’s a little crazy.”
At this point, Ralph comes to halt in the entire flow of his discourse, as if
suddenly remembering where Gwen and Adam were earlier today and how
thoroughly insensitive that word “crazy” might be. The humor is over and, to
cover his faux pas, he takes a good sized pull at the brown liquor he’s holding,
then remains silent until he thinks it’s all right to go on.
“She also tell you what she was working on?” he says. “Her project?”
“You mean her ‘EC’ thesis?”
“Ah, you know about that. Good for you. Totally radical concept, of course. I
don’t know enough quantum theory to make a real evaluation myself but it
caused a real shindig, I can tell you that much. Well, more like an insurrection
really. Whole place was up in arms by all accounts, reverberations spread far and
wide.”
As Ralph talks, Adam nods politely but he’s not paying too much attention
anymore. The unintended slip of the tongue has done its damage. His head is
starting to ache and he feels exhausted after the long day: first the drive up across
the border, then over to the institute and back; not to mention the terrible
disappointment of seeing his mother like that. It’s as if he’s only just realizing the
possibility that she may never recognize him again and that means she’s gone.
He’s lost her.
“Are you all right?” says Ralph, but the question doesn’t quite reach its target and
there’s no reply, so he just sits there feeling awkward and helpless. This is an
Adam he’s never seen before and he’s not sure how to cope with it. He seems to
feel that because of the comment, he may even be to blame.
For several minutes they just sit there in the quiet of the evening, sharing the
peace yet unable to communicate. Thoughts have disappeared, talk halted and
for now the world of science has been left to its own devices. Eventually, slowly,
Adam struggles to his feet. “G’night Ralph,” he says quietly. “Thanks for the
drink.”
46
“Look, Adam, I’m sorry if...”
“That’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Don’t worry about it.”
Adam leaves Ralph sitting in the den and finds his way upstairs to the spare
room that Gwen’s made up for him, the same tidy room in which his mother
once lived. He collapses down onto the single bed with his brain on hold but his
emotions on overtime.
Involuntary shards of memory keep coming back, all the minor, insignificant
moments that make up any average childhood: the fun and the frustrations, as
well as the endlessly patient, unconditional love that mothers seem able to
supply. Kids take it for granted but they also get to depend on it and when it’s
taken away, they inevitably suffer; not just with abandonment but with a
heightened sense of their own remorse.
And as his eyes start to close, it occurs to him that this may even be the problem
with Evelyn Chadwick. Her obvious turmoil may have as much to do with her
mother’s premature death as anything else, in which case she may not be crazy at
all. She may have just been deprived.
47
4
“Noone can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
Eleanor Roosevelt
The restaurant’s maître d’ tries to be the very incarnation of panache as he sways
across the room ahead of Evelyn and Adam. Once he locates the reserved table
on the far side, he makes a show of holding their chairs, flipping starched
napkins into their respective laps and then, with a final flourish, he presents
them with bound copies of the menu. After that, he disappears so quickly they
don’t even notice him leave.
Although it’s just the two of them at present, there’s an extra setting because
Jesse Eberhardt has threatened to join them later. It wasn’t Evelyn’s idea but she
doesn’t know the local restaurants and when she asked him for a
recommendation, he kind of invited himself, claiming to be a personal friend of
the owner. She looks around now at the stucco walls, the hanging lanterns and
the sentimental daubings of Venice, complete with gondolas. “Is this place all
right?” she says hesitantly.
“Sure beats the motel coffee shop,” replies Adam.
She appreciates the endorsement but she’s a little unsure all the same. After all,
motel or not, he travels the world at a moment’s notice and he’s associated with a
major network, which means he must eat in some pretty fancy establishments.
But even as she tries to refrain from her own insecurities, she can’t help glancing
at the clientele: for the most part, an older, more conservative crowd, the kind of
longmarried couples who sit all evening without talking to each other because
they’ve got nothing left to say.
To fill the void at their own table, she says: “It’s been months since I went out to
dinner, can you believe that? I think the last time must have been, let’s see, the
annual faculty affair. You know, I think that’s the last time I wore this outfit, too.”
48
The black suit she put on for tonight is one of the few dressy items in her
wardrobe. It’s a simple style, quiet in the extreme, yet she feels awkward in it, as
if she’s the wrong person to be wearing such clothes. She even dabbed a little
makeup on her face too, rare for her, but nothing feels right this evening. She
glances at Adam but it’s obvious that he hasn’t even noticed her discomfort. In
fact, while she’s been consciously preoccupied with her own thoughts, he’s been
busy examining the menu.
“You into food?” he asks her with that easy way of his. “Do any cooking at all?”
“No, well, not too much. I can make a lasagna the cat likes, does that count?” She
sees him look up and smile for a moment. It’s a pleasant smile, perhaps a little
detached, but it seems genuine enough. “And you?” she says. “I suppose you’re
cordon bleu, right?”
“Hardly. I like to eat but I prefer to go out. When I’m home, I tend to snack too
much. It’s a disease.” He taps at his flanks as if to prove the point. “You don’t
seem to put on any weight though.”
“Me? No, well...” She’s unsure of how much to tell him, how much to reveal, but
then decides to hell with it. She doesn't get too many people to talk to and
besides, they’re old friends. They shared a science lesson together. “I had this
eating disorder when I was a kid,” she tells him. “They call it anorexia... but this
was long before it became fashionable. I almost wasted away at one point.”
“Sounds like it was serious.”
“I just never wanted to eat. Even the sight of food...” She stops as she remembers
where she is. “I guess I shouldn't be talking about it here.”
“That’s okay. There’s not much spoils my appetite. What happened?”
A shrug. “They tried everything to get me to eat. When it got really bad, they
sent me to a special clinic... dieticians, psychologists, the whole works.” She
shakes her head at the memory. “Didn’t do much good. I got a little better but not
a whole lot. Lived on yogurt and rice cakes for a long time.”
49
“Yuck.”
“It only really changed when I left for Princeton.” She doesn’t mention that
according to her therapist, it was probably her home life that caused the malady
in the first place, what with her father’s attitudes and the early death of her
mother; but she doesn’t want to get into that. “I guess that’s when I finally
discovered there was a lot of stuff that wasn’t too bad. You know what it began
with? You’ll never guess... olives.”
“Olives?”
“Somebody made me a martini one time. I didn’t like the drink but I tasted the
olive, and that’s how it began.” She laughs. “Then it just went on from there. I
still don’t eat meat though. Eggs occasionally but no real meat. Illogical, I
know…”
“How old were you,” he asks her, “when you left for Princeton?”
“Sixteen.”
“That's pretty young. Must have been a challenge.”
She never thought of it like that. A challenge? The idea makes it sound bold,
almost noble, but it was nothing like that. It was more an awkward period of
readjustment as she struggled with such abrupt change. At high school she was
always way ahead of anyone else her age. They put her in programs for the
gifted, gave her oneonone tutoring, it was all pretty easy. Then she arrived at
Princeton and it was the first time in her life she ever had to try hard. “When I
got there, everyone was so much older,” she tells him, “so much more confident
than I was. They all seemed so... so mature, as if they all knew exactly what they
were doing, you know? And me, it was like I was just out of diapers.”
She smiles at her own shortcomings. In one sense she felt liberated being away
from home like that but in another, she was totally overwhelmed by the place. It
was Princeton, after all, the elite of the elite, a historic campus spread across six
hundred acres with enough organized activities to make any newcomer’s head
50
spin.
“You know, it’s funny,” he says, breaking in to her thought patterns. “I was
thinking about my own school the other day. First time in a long time.”
She’s glad for the opportunity to think about something other than herself.
“Which one did you go to?”
“The one right on my doorstep, Bishop’s. It’s tiny, I’m sure you’ve never heard of
it.”
“You didn’t want to go away somewhere?”
“More than anything,” he says wistfully.
“So why didn’t you? Because of your family?”
He still hasn’t told her much about his background except a few words in the car
while they were driving down here: about his older sister and about his mother’s
condition. It’s obviously an emotional subject, difficult for him to talk about.
“Partly the family,” he replies, “but that’s not what held me back. Gwen was
always there to look after Mom. I guess the real reason I didn’t go was money,
simple as that.”
“I thought it was all subsidized up there in Canada.”
“It’s subsidized, sure, but it’s not exactly free. It still cost a lot more than we had.
Then there was accommodation, living expenses, books, travel... we just couldn’t
afford it. Gwen was already working her way through school, so the only way I
could make it happen for myself was to stay home and do the same thing.”
“I gather your father wasn't around.”
“My father...” he repeats quietly, the residue of bitterness still evident. “My father
was nonexistent.”
51
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing. He was in the army... Sergeant Harold Olmstead, pride of the
regiment. He just never bothered coming home, that’s all.”
“I guess it must be hard, being on active duty.”
“Are you kidding? He was quartermaster, in charge of the damn stores. ‘What
size boots do you need?’ I don’t think he ever set foot outside the base.”
“So what are you saying? He didn’t care about you?”
“Who knows? He sent me a birthday gift one time, some sports gear, but it was
much too small. I’d already grown. And that was the only time he ever
remembered.”
“Maybe you were lucky,” she says. The words escape before she can stop them
and then it’s too late, she can’t take them back. She waits but Adam doesn’t
respond. It’s not that he’s offended, it’s that there seems to be nothing to say.
Perhaps, she thinks, the whole notion of fathers should simply be offlimits for
the rest of the evening. “What did you do?” she asks him, just to change the
subject. “I mean to work your way through.”
“I did shifts in a video store.”
“Really? Hey, I did that myself one semester.” She sees him raise his eyebrows.
“Why, you think I wouldn’t know how to work the cash?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that with your father and all...”
“My father thought it would be good for me.” She shrugs again but it’s a small
gesture to herself, as if in apology for breaking her own rule on the subject so
quickly. “I guess it was, in a way. Good for me, I mean. First time away and so on.
Kind of helped me meet people, you know? Get used to it all.” At once,
impressions of that video booth in the campus centre come crowding back and
impressions, too, of the creep who ran it. While she was busy working the
counter and refilling the shelves, he just sat in the back eating chips and ogling
52
the porn that ran endlessly; all those melonboob blonds and that sleazy lounge
music they played behind the fake moans and groans. He wasn’t dangerous, in
fact he was fairly harmless, but he repulsed her anyway. “I only did that for a
couple of months,” she adds, but fails to provide any further explanation.
The waiter arrives and asks if they’d care for an apéritif. He’s an older man with
receding hair but the outfit of black pants, white shirt and short green vest make
him look more like a bellhop at a chain hotel. His vague, disinterested manner
suggests he’d prefer to be doing anything than this.
With a brief gesture, Adam invites her to make the decision but she finds herself
stumped for an answer. She’s never been too fond of alcohol, not even the wine
coolers her team used to throw back after working late. It wasn’t just the taste, it
was also the idea of losing control she disliked. In fact, the first time she ever
tasted champagne was at her convocation when she was still just eighteen and
she didn’t care for that very much either.
It was there at that same affair, she recalls, that she was first taken aside by the
old man himself, Martin Nieves, chairman of the review committee. It was he
who encouraged her to take her masters and then, when she managed to
complete that in record time, he recommended her again for a doctorate
program. By the time she was done, her reputation was such that she was invited
onto the faculty, a rare honor. They said it was due to her “capacity for analysis”
coupled with the “creativity of her deductions” but she always knew that a great
deal had to with gender tokenism. Physics has always been a very male
dominated discipline and that hasn’t changed much, even today.
The surprising thing was that, to her, it didn’t matter because by that time she’d
actually come to like the place. What had been strange and frightening at first
had developed into something familiar and comfortable. It had become her
stability, her security, and she found a certain reassurance within its solid
foundations: the massive Firestone library with its caverns and carrels; Nassau
Hall, which for a brief period in 1783 actually served as the US capitol; Einstein’s
old office in the famous Room 109; the fountains behind Robertson where people
splashed and partied in the summer. She even grew to like the sterile
functionality of Jadwin Hall, which housed the physics department and where
she spent so much of her time. In fact, of the entire campus area, the only place
53
she never went near was the great university chapel where her father once came
to preach at the invitation of the Evangelical Fellowship. She was always afraid
the edifice would trap her somehow, that she’d get caught in its clutches, and
then she’d be right back to where she was before she left home.
“Dr. Chadwick?”
She hears Adam’s voice from across the table, just like back in her kitchen. She’s
getting into the habit of drifting off like that and she figures she’d better shake
herself out of it or she’ll be senile before her time. “My name’s Evelyn,” she tells
him.
“And I’m Adam.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she says, then sneaks a look at the waiter who’s still
standing there, waiting for their order with a bored look on his face.
“Maybe we should just take some wine,” Adam suggests, and begins scanning
the list.
She watches him select something but she’s not sure what it is and nor does she
really care: red, white, rosé, whatever. She’s hardly a connoisseur. “Tell me about
your family,” she says to him when the waiter’s gone. It’s yet another way to
avoid talking about herself.
“Well,” he replies, “there’s not much left to tell.”
“No, I mean about your family in Toronto.”
“In Toronto? Why do you think I’ve got family there?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just assumed.”
“Oh, you mean wife, kids, that kind of family. Why would you assume that?”
She doesn’t answer. She feels more than a little stupid so she tries to put it to one
side by focusing on him, trying to gauge exactly what his circumstances might
54
be. He looks like the kind of guy who should have a family but if he doesn’t, then
who is he? What’s his life like? He can’t be gay, that’s not possible. Well okay, sure
it’s possible because anything’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely. Maybe he just
lives for his work. That would be something she could relate to.
“I was married once,” he says to her. He makes it sound like an admission.
“Lasted almost three years... which, I have to say, was probably about two and a
half years too long.”
She nods to try and offer some sense of empathy but in reality she can’t even
imagine what that’s like. For her, marriage is like an alien concept. “Never had
kids?” she asks him.
He shakes his head. “We talked about it but it never happened. Never seemed to
be the right time. Just as well in the end.”
Evelyn’s doing her best to picture the woman in her mind but it’s not easy from
the scant information: probably one of those healthy, freshfaced types they have
up there. “What did she do, your wife? Supermodel?”
“Now why do you say that?”
Once again she’s been caught in the same trap. Why does she do this to herself?
“That’s all right,” he goes on. “As a matter of fact, she was an actress... or at least
she tried to be."
“Didn’t work out?”
"Oh, she tried hard enough. Lots of calls, lots of auditions. One time she got a bit
part in a movie, a waitress opposite de Niro. Only had one line but she was so
nervous, she kept fluffing it. I guess it wasn’t really her thing and she knew it, so
she began doing TV ads. Nothing wrong with that, though. Shot more than a few
myself in my time.”
She laughs. “Really? TV ads?”
55
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“I don't know, it just doesn’t seem like you. Is that how you got your start?”
“More or less. Small production house doing pricebuster ads for supermarkets
and Chevy dealers.” He takes a moment to smile at the recollection. “Hey listen, I
earned more in six months than I did my entire life up to that point, so I thought,
okay, I can do this.”
“Is that how you met her? Your wife, I mean?”
“Something like that,” he says, but he doesn’t seem anxious to give away too
many secrets all at once.
“And now?”
“And now I don’t know what she’s doing.”
“No, I mean anyone special?” She feels her face flush a little with the
misunderstanding.
“Oh, I see.” He plays with the fork in front of him while he thinks about it.
“Don’t know if I’d call it special,” he tells her.
“But there is someone?”
He doesn’t reply and the interchange just seems to fall away with no resolution.
She gazes across at him now, at the worldweary face and the old jacket and the
tie slightly loosened at the collar. She’s never been very good in this kind of
situation. She can never quite balance it: the small talk, the eye contact, the
repartee. It’s how to attract men she was always told, first by her mother, then by
her girlfriends and then in all those magazines she once forced herself to read,
the ones with articles entitled “How to make him interested” and “How to turn him
on.” It’s how women are supposed to behave, she was told, but somehow she’s
never been able to do it. Why? She’s not sure. Maybe because she finds it all so...
what’s the word? Trivial? Coy? How can you be coy when you spend all your
waking moments thinking about Heisenberg uncertainty and Feynman diagrams
56
and WheelerDeWitt equations? How can you be sexy when you’re leading your
team into battle against the massed microforces of quantum reality? Was Joan of
Arc sexy? Florence Nightingale? Marie Curie? You have to be on a mission when
you’re attacking the very nature of the universe or you may as well give up
before you start.
Without even realizing it, the conversation has sagged so she casts around
looking for something that can bring them back to safer territory. “Any more
thoughts about the show?” she finally asks him. “Think you can do it without
me?”
“Still reluctant? That’s okay, it’s what I wanted to talk to you about tonight
anyway. I kind of had another idea.”
“What kind of idea?”
He gives her a gentle smile. “Tell you what, why don’t we wait for Mr. Eberhardt
to arrive and I’ll explain it all then. I’ve managed to get some research done, flesh
it out a little... I think it might work.”
She’s curious and even a little intrigued but she tries to contain herself. Eagerness
is such a childlike quality. “So what happens when you put these things
together?” she asks him. “You get an idea, you do some research... and then
what? You write a script?”
“Not really. Nobody just sits down and actually writes a script from scratch the
way you might imagine. It’s much more... how can I put it? Let’s say it’s much
more fluid than that. There are various stages... sifting through the information,
drafting it into usable chunks, arranging it into an initial structure. Personally I
like to map it all out on a storyboard. I have all these little threebyfive cards
which I can put in front of me and rearrange to my heart’s content. Then once it’s
in some kind of shape, we start the practicalities of seeing what we need, figuring
out locations, guest lists and so on, in order to try and match the budget
parameters. That’s a whole job unto itself. Then if we’re still okay and the client’s
on board with the overall direction, we begin a shooting script, which is really
more like a screenplay... and even that can change radically.”
57
“Sounds like quite a process,” she says, although in some ways it’s probably no
different from preparing a physics thesis, with all the false starts and tangents.
“It’s a process all right.”
“So who verifies all your work?” She’s thinking now of the endless review
committees that she herself had to endure: old man Nieves and his crowd of
sycophants.
“Depends on the subject. We’ve got some good contacts at U of T and there are
some guys down at Columbia who sometimes help out but they’re not always
available. Sometimes we just have to take whoever we can get.”
“And that’s how you do it? Just like that?”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It all seems so...”
“What? Haphazard?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Disorganized?”
“No...”
“Chaotic?”
“Stop.”
He quits the teasing and grins at her again. She likes this grin of his when it
appears. It’s refreshing in a way, as if she’s managed to pierce his professional
cloaking and discover the astonishing secret that there’s a human being inside.
It’s not unlike that scene at the end of “The Wizard of Oz” when they draw back
the curtain and see a real person pulling the levers.
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The bored waiter finally returns with some crusty bread, a large bottle of mineral
water and the Valpolicella that Adam ordered; but it’s at this moment that Jesse
Eberhardt arrives, full of the outside world. He plants the required kiss on
Evelyn’s cheek and reaches over to shake Adam’s hand before lowering himself
into the third chair. Now that he’s here, his huge form dominates the table,
changing the dynamics and interrupting the vibrations.
“How’s Deirdre?” she says to him. Deirdre’s his wife, a fussy snob of a woman in
Evelyn’s opinion, runs a local charity like it’s her own fiefdom and sits on the
boards of several others. She’s been suffering from a bout of bronchitis recently.
“She’s fine now, Evelyn, thanks for asking. Wondering when you’re going to
come over, pay us a visit.”
“Soon, I promise,” says Evelyn politely. In fact, it’s the last thing she feels like
doing. As a pair she finds them insufferable, both sanctimonious and
patronizing, which to her may be the worst possible combination. “Tell her I’ll
give her a call.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And the Ministry?” says Adam. “How’s that going?” Meanwhile he tastes the
wine the waiter’s offering, gives a nod and watches him pour out three glasses
before departing.
Jesse rubs his large hands over his face as if to indicate that now he’s here, he can
relax. He can let his guard down a little. “Wish I could tell you,” he says. “It’s not
easy, that’s for sure.”
“My mother used to say if it were easy, anybody could do it.”
“Well, that’s nice of you but I have to tell you, this hasn’t been easy at all. You
know, you work a certain way all these years, it becomes like second nature,
know what I’m saying? Now all that’s out the window. ’Course...” he adds, “it
would help if I knew which way I was going.”
“How do you mean?”
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Jesse looks from Adam over to Evelyn, as if wondering exactly how much he can
divulge, then a sip from his glass somehow spurs the mental decision to loosen
up. “Well, you don’t know about this, Evelyn, so you’ll have to forgive me... What
I’m trying to say is, knowing about Merle’s heart and all, I’d already engaged a
consultant to start a quiet search. You know, talk to a few people. Nothing much,
just some discussions...”
Evelyn picks up on it immediately. “You mean to take my father’s place?” she
says, sounding uncharacteristically defensive on the matter, even to herself.
“Sunday with Someone Else?”
For a splitsecond Jesse looks like he’s about to make his excuses but the words
don’t quite make it to his lips. There’s not really much he can say anyway, except
perhaps that business is business; but he sees himself as too much of a gentleman
to come out with anything as crude as that. “He’s a good man,” he says, still
talking about the consultant. “A real pro, name of Lester Shaughnessy. Ever hear
of him?” This to Adam.
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Been around the circuit a long time, worked with most of the majors. I’ve known
him for years. Cut a long story short, he thought he might have someone lined up
for us. Pleasant young guy from Austin, Texas. I think you’d have liked him,
Evelyn. I sure did.”
Evelyn chooses not to answer. She wants no part of this conversation, so it’s
Adam who fills the gap.
“Past tense?” he says.
“Well, we pretty much had the papers all signed up so we’d be ready, you know,
just in case... But then he got himself into a vehicle accident about a month back.
Was just plain going too fast, no excuses. Went smack into a trailer, can you credit
that? He’s still in the coma.”
Adam tries to share some sympathy for the mysteries of life. “So what now?
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There’s nobody else?”
“Well, you being in the same game and so on, you’d have to realize that this
here’s a long term deal. The good Lord doesn’t make too many like Merle, that’s
for sure, and if I’m going to team up with someone else... well, he has to be right
or it won’t happen, I can tell you that.”
“What will you do? Just keep looking?”
Jesse takes a sip of his mineral water. “Don’t have much choice,” he says.
The waiter’s back again now, hovering, anxious to recite his list of daily specials.
Jesse doesn’t give him the chance though and doesn’t even bother looking at the
menu. Instead he firmly recommends the minestrone followed by the scaloppini,
declaring with certainty that it’s the best in the area. Adam decides to accept, but
Evelyn’s eating habits preclude that particular selection so she orders melon
without the prosciutto plus the main course caesar.
“So...” says Jesse, once all that’s out of the way. “What’re we talking about here
this evening?” he says to Adam. “How’s that show of yours shaping up?”
Typical of Jesse to set himself up as chairman, Evelyn thinks, and she’s starting to
regret his arrival. She was just beginning to feel more at ease with Adam but that
tentative link seems to be broken now. The only consolation is that before he
begins his answer, he manages to catch her eye. It’s not much, just the briefest
glance, but it does manage to convey his own version of the same regret. Does
that imply complicity, she wonders, or is she just reading more into it than it
really warrants?
“Fact is, I’m thinking of changing the focus,” Adam says to the two of them.
“What we were talking about last time? Well, I’m just not sure it’s going to work
out.”
“After all that?” says Jesse.
“I’m afraid so.” He makes a gesture as if to say that these things happen but
chooses not to elaborate.
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“Well, that’s a real shame. I’m sorry to hear you say that. But you’re still here
talking to us, so I presume you’ve got something else in mind?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do... if you’ll allow me to explain.”
“Please.”
“Okay, so in essence, the concept is to explore the link between faith and science
over the years.” He turns to look at Evelyn as the acknowledged expert in the
field. “I have to say the idea kind of came from you actually, from our
conversation.”
She feels obliged to respond but she’s not sure what to say. “I’m flattered,” she
tells him, “but I don’t know. Faith and science together? Might be controversial.”
“Exactly,” says Adam, not even trying to mask his enthusiasm. “That’s what I like
about it. Just look at all the press it gets. It’s like the storydujour. Wherever you
look, there’s another argument about God versus physics, or creation versus
evolution. Think of that whole recent debate about intelligent design as an
alternative to Darwin in the school curriculum. Parents, school boards, everyone
weighing in... even the White House put in their two cents’ worth.”
As Adam talks, Evelyn notices that Jesse has become thoughtful, not a good sign.
She’s seen it before.
“Mr. Olmstead...” he says slowly. “Help me out here, would you? Seems to me...
and please correct me if I’m wrong... but I really thought the agreement we had
was to do some kind of eulogy for Merle. Isn’t that what we talked about?”
“Well, in fact,” says Adam, “what we talked about was a tribute as the basis for a
show about evangelism.”
“Fine, fine, let’s not split hairs... eulogy, tribute, it’s all within the same
framework, I understand that, all within the license of what you do. But now it
seems we’re talking about something else entirely, a whole different concept, and
I guess I’m just wondering why you’d even want the Ministry involved.”
62
“As a location. I’d still like to shoot a segment there if it’s all right with you.”
“A location? Just a location? So let me get this straight. You want to do a show
about faith and science, and you want to shoot some of it at the Ministry... Is that
what you’re saying?”
“Basically, yes. Why, is there a problem?”
“A problem? Well, you might say that. Y’see, it’s my audience, Mr. Olmstead. You
have to appreciate that many of them believe in what we might call the ‘Genesis’
version of events and I have to respect that. Now don’t get me wrong... both
Merle and me, we were quite open to different interpretations and we realized
there’s no one with all the answers, know what I mean? All kinds of ways of
reading the Bible and I can see how a broader interpretation, shall we say, might
even open the door to some aspects of science. No, I really mean that. In fact if I
recall, Evelyn, we were once discussing your own studies and your father made a
good point about the fact that we ourselves use television for the purpose of
worship. He said if that’s not science, what is? And you know what? He was
right, too. There was a logic to that I just couldn’t deny.” He looks at her now like
he’s a favorite uncle and he can’t resist veering away from the topic to make the
point. “Let me tell you, he was quite something, your daddy.”
“He was something all right.”
It’s not exactly what Jesse wants to hear at this moment, so instead of responding
directly, he simply ignores her comment and moves on, turning back to Adam
again as if she hadn’t said a word. “See, the point I’m making here, Mr.
Olmstead, is that while I’m sympathetic to what you’re trying to do, I’m just not
too sure my audience would buy it, not too sure at all.”
Adam picks up the basket of bread and offers it around before taking a piece
himself. “Well, that’s fair enough, Mr. Eberhardt. And do you feel the same way,
Dr. Chadwick?”
Evelyn looks at him. It’s back to “Dr. Chadwick” now, is it? Or is that just a show
for the sake of Jesse? It’s hard to tell. She’s not sure of her ground here, not
63
certain which side she’s supposed to be on. Anybody’s? Nobody’s? Just her own
perhaps? She’s finding it difficult to gauge. “It’s a whole different thing, that’s for
sure,” she says, deliberately noncommittal. “Can you tell us more about what
you’ve got in mind?”
Adam seems amenable to that. “I can try,” he says. “Still a little sketchy of course,
nothing’s set in stone yet... but here’s what I’m thinking, you with me? We open
with some quotes from famous scientists who believed in God like Newton,
Darwin, even Einstein... ‘Science without religion is lame and religion without
science is blind...’ Isn’t that what he said?”
“Amongst other things,” she replies.
“So the concept,” Adam continues, “is to do a full review, all the connections
between faith and science from, say, the pyramids to Stonehenge, from Galileo’s
astronomy to Pope Gregory’s calendar, from the siege weapons of the crusades
to, oh, I don’t know, the navigation systems that guided the missionaries... Well,
you get the idea. We’d link Guttenberg’s press to the spread of the Bible and yes,
Mr. Eberhardt, that’s a good idea, we could relate television to the spread of
evangelism. There’s just so much material... and that’s what makes it interesting,
at least for me.”
Evelyn thinks about pointing out the exact opposite, that in many areas like
astronomy, anthropology, medicine and physics, the arguments have often far
outweighed the agreements, but she manages to refrain.
“We’d need to keep it lively,” Adam is saying, “just to keep it all moving... music,
sound effects, you know the kind of thing. And in between, there’d be
interviews... freestanding segments spaced throughout in which people would
talk about the link. I’m thinking, say, the clergy from each of the major religions
to explain their attitudes towards science and as a counterpoint, perhaps one
scientist to talk about science’s attitude towards God... I think that’d be about the
right ratio, considering it’s primarily a show about faith. But ideally that one
scientist would be you, Dr. Chadwick.”
“Me?”
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“With your credentials, you’d be perfect. And you seem to have a way of
explaining things... I think it’s a real talent.”
Evelyn feels like she’s not worthy of such a compliment but chooses to indulge
her ego by not protesting. “What exactly would I be saying? No quantum theory,
surely.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he smiles. “Nothing to do with quantum theory and
nothing to do with your thesis either. No, I see this as being all very objective, as
if you’re speaking on behalf of the scientific community.”
“Well now, there’s a switch.”
“I understand that when scientists talk about God, they don’t necessarily mean a
traditional Deity figure and all I’d be asking you to do is to try to put that into
words.”
“Would I have to learn a script?”
“No, not at all. In fact I’d much prefer that you didn’t. Basically how it works is
that I just ask you a bunch of questions on camera and you can answer any way
you like.”
“Really? Any way I like?”
“Absolutely.”
She somehow doubts that and she offers a more cynical smile. “Well, that’s very
openminded of you and everything but with all due respect, I don’t think I’ll be
much use to you, Mr. Olmstead. Not if we’re going to talk about any of that
Biblical crap.”
“Evelyn, please.” This is Jesse, acting the uncle again.
“Oh right, sorry, it’s not crap at all,” she says, this time unable to resist. To hell
with it, she thinks, once and for all. She’s had enough. It’s been like this her entire
life and sitting here with Jesse just brings it all back. “Sorry, I forgot. This is the
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‘Good Book’ we’re talking about here. This is some old geezer with a beard
putting the world together in six days flat.”
“Evelyn!”
“What’s the problem? This is your Genesis version we’re talking about, isn’t it?
This is gardens and snakes and apples... and a son who murders his only brother
leaving him as what? The last man standing? So who does he mate with? His
mother?”
“All right, that’s enough.”
“And you know what that means, don’t you? It means we’re all descended from a
killer with an Oedipus complex. Kind of explains a great deal, don’t you think?”
“I said that’s enough.”
“Why? Isn’t that what it says? And then there’s Noah’s Ark. Boy, now there’s a
good one. Two of every kind of animal, right? And what about the ones that are
selfreproducing? You need two of those? Or how about the ones that kill their
mates after conception? Black widow spiders, ever heard of those? How long
would two of those last on a voyage? A minute and a half? Don’t you see how
ludicrous it all is? Oh and wait, I’ve got a beauty, a real theological issue. No, I
mean it, this one’s great, it really is. How about the fish? Ever think of that? God
was going to destroy everything with a flood because it was evil, right? Isn’t that
the story? Well, how about the fish? How could he destroy fish in a flood? Or are
fish morally good in some way? You know, I never thought of fish like that, did
you? Imagine... all the piranhas and sharks would survive but the baby rabbits
and the little Bambi deer would have to die. What kind of righteous God is that,
pray tell?”
Jesse is clearly disgusted. “This is obscene,” he says. “I won't have you shaming
your father like this.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, I’ve been told before. I’m heading for eternal damnation.
Go straight to hell, do not pass go.” She stops here, well aware of how petulant
she’s being, how infuriating, but she really doesn’t care, not after all those years
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of staying quiet, all those times when she never said a word. “Just tell me one
thing, okay? Just tell me you really believe all that stuff, all those stories and
miracles... I mean you, personally.” She says this directly to Jesse but she doesn’t
give him a chance to reply, turning instead to Adam. “You do know that much of
it has actually been disproved, don’t you? Like the story of the star and the
shepherds and the wise men? Comes straight from pagan mythology dating back
to 1500 BC. Yes, that’s right... the nativity play we all performed at primary
school is a phony, nothing but cheap plagiarism. And as for the miracles, well
now, that’s a whole other issue. Did you know that in the original language, Jesus
walked by the water, not on? I’m serious. Makes a difference, doesn’t it? But not to
all those literalists out there. They just want to believe it, no matter how wrong it
all is.”
Jesse’s reluctant to respond, as if he feels he should set an example and rise above
such pettiness. Yet he’s dutybound to say something. “What fundamentalists
believe,” he replies as sedately as he can, “is that the Bible teaches us moral
values.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” replies Evelyn, “that’s right, I forgot, moral values... Like we
should have the children of Ham as slaves and you know how that translates,
don’t you? Black people. And then there’s the commandment that we beat all our
kids with an inchthick rod. Are those the moral values you’re talking about?
How about polygamy? Men can have several wives as long as they’re treated
equally. That’s another good one.”
“Have you finished?” says Jesse quietly.
“Not by a long way. What you forget is that I actually know what’s in the Bible. I
had to read it, remember? I had to learn it backwards, forwards and sideways,
and you know what? Most of it made me want to puke.”
“I see... And I suppose if I were to say the same thing about science, you’d have
an explanation for everything, right?”
“Okay, here it comes.”
“Global warming, human cloning, genetically modified food, biological weapons,
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nuclear meltdown... You want me to go on?”
Evelyn’s heard it all before and doesn’t necessarily disagree. She’s not exactly a
great defender of the whitecoat community herself these days but there’s no way
she’s going to let him win with that strategy. “The best defense is offense, right?”
she says, just to goad him some more and once again she finds herself turning to
Adam, as if he’s become some kind of arbitrator in all this. “Did you know that
Jesse here was a football star in his younger days? It's true, back when he was a
jock at Duke Divinity... What was it you used to play, Jesse? Tight end?”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” replies Jesse. “Is it? Because I don’t find it very
funny at all.”
“No? Well, that’s maybe because that Ministry’s a big enough joke as it is.”
“That Ministry paid for your education.”
“That Ministry,” she repeats, “is the reason I left home in the first place.”
The volume has been noticeably raised and Jesse refrains from the slanging
match long enough to glance uncomfortably around the room to see who may
have been disturbed. “Do we have to do this here?” he says in a more hushed
tone.
“Why, where would you prefer?”
“I don’t want to do it at all.”
Fortunately, the waiter arrives to prevent any further development and the entire
conversation is put on hold as plates are served and more wine is poured,
followed by the customary sprinkles of black pepper and Parmesan cheese. By
the time he’s gone, tempers have calmed a little and no one's too keen to restart
the exchange.
“Well, Mr. Olmstead...” says Jesse. He helps himself to a piece of the bread and
takes the time to butter it. “I have to tell you, we very much appreciate your
coming all the way out here but it kind of looks to me as if we’re going to be
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drawing a blank, wouldn’t you say?”
Now they’re all occupied with their food, Adam has several seconds to reflect
and Evelyn notes that he uses the full time. It’s almost like they’ve forgotten that
it all began with his revised proposal and she can’t help wondering what he’s
going to say to all this. Even putting their vitriol aside, it appears that Jesse’s
much too concerned with preserving his investment in her father to allow
anything beyond the initial agreement, while she herself has made it more than
clear that she’ll outright refuse anything that even hints of religion. It may be
easier to smash neutrons together, she thinks, than to resolve such entrenched
opinions.
Eventually she sees Adam lift his wine and sit back in his chair, a major gesture
that seems to help him relax and, at the same time, reduce some of the mutual
tension around the table. He smiles and shakes his head at the same time,
making the whole affair seem like it’s nothing at all. It’s a knack he seems to
possess.
“Well now,” he says, “I hear what you’re saying, of course I do, and I understand
the issues being raised. I mean, it’s not like the debate you’re having is anything
new, despite the obvious passions involved."
“Passions...” says Evelyn. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
"But with all due respect,” he continues, “aren’t we all just getting a little ahead
of ourselves here?”
“You think so?” says Jesse, as he tastes his soup.
“All I want to do is make a TV show... and that’s all it is, just a one hour TV show
for the network to use as a timefiller between updates on the latest crisis. I mean,
let’s get real here. That’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? Nothing more. One
hour and that’s it... minus eight minutes for commercials and another couple for
graphics and promotions. I hardly think that in those fifty minutes we’re going to
work out the meaning of life.”
Adam takes a sip from his water glass, then leans forward and picks up his
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spoon so he can finally begin his meal but it’s clear he doesn’t want to let the
advantage slip away now that he’s managed to achieve it.
“Let me answer you both this way, if I may,” he goes on. “Firstly, Mr. Eberhardt,
as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, when I receive a mandate to make a show, I have to
make one, otherwise... well, what can I say? I’ve got an enterprise to keep
running. I’m sure that you of all people can understand that. So now, for me, the
only real question is... do I feature your Ministry or not? Well, okay, since I’m
already here and we’re already acquainted, it would be convenient, sure. But a
location is just a location, if you see what I’m saying. There are others.”
Evelyn sees that Jesse’s about to answer but he doesn't get the chance because
Adam’s in full cry, shifting his attention towards her with hardly a pause.
“And to you, Dr. Chadwick, I’d say my offer still stands. I fully admit that I’d love
to have you on the show, I really would. Like I said, I think you’d be perfect. But
forgive me if I sound a little abrupt when I say that you’re not the only one with
such credentials. I’m sorry but that’s the reality I live in, so let me just say one
thing... I understand your concerns and I can promise you, in writing if you like,
that nothing will be preprogrammed. The show will be what it will be, I can’t
change that, but like I said before, you’d be free to answer the questions any way
you wish.”
“How about in the editing?” she says. “You can twist everything around.”
“Technically, yes, but I won’t because I never do. Ask anyone. I’ll give you
references. Apart from anything else, I can get sued like that.”
Evelyn doesn’t answer immediately, so Adam takes another sip of his mineral
water and then comes back at both of them again before they can gather
themselves.
“Hey listen,” he says, his tone much lighter. “Believe me, from what I’ve seen, I
don’t even want to take an editorial stand on this one. It’d be like playing with
matches. No, my feeling is, we should do as much as we can to avoid any
controversy. We’ll just ask the questions and let viewers decide for themselves.
It’s the only way to do it, don’t you think? What do you say? A yes or no, it’s as
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simple as that. Mr. Eberhardt, will you allow us to use the Ministry as a location
and accept some free global exposure, yes or no? Dr. Chadwick, do you wish to
use your reputation as one of the country’s foremost experts in your field to
answer a few questions any way you want, yes or no? And that’s all there is to it.
All I ask is that once you commit, you commit in good faith… if you’ll excuse the
expression. But please be assured, whatever you each decide is fine with me.”
• • •
They opt out of dessert and coffee so the evening doesn’t have to last any longer
than necessary and Adam takes the check immediately. As they leave, he politely
offers Evelyn a ride home despite the somewhat downhill evening they just had
and she accepts because the alternative would be to go with Jesse, which for her
is no choice at all. She could always call a cab, of course, there must be some
around here; but that would be just plain silly so she finds herself walking with
Adam across the car park with little to say.
Once they’re on their way, however, she feels the need to make some kind of
comment at least. “I guess you think I was totally unreasonable,” she says.
“Not at all.”
“No?”
“You have a pointofview and you expressed it.”
“I think I did more than that,” she says, but he doesn’t respond and they drive
on, looking out for the directional signs that appear to scare up with great
suddenness into the headlights. However, the aftermath of the evening remains
and she’s really not sure what to make of it all.
At first, the conversation was awkward between the two of them but that was
only because of her own lack of experience in such situations. After that it
became much more amicable and she felt there may even be some kind of
chemistry taking place, even though he said he was already in a relationship;
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well, he didn’t exactly say it, but he didn’t deny it either. But then, of course, Jesse
arrived and it all fell apart. She was the one who started it, she’s aware of that.
The only question is why? Was it really just a latent tantrum on her part or did it
have some more profound meaning? She can’t seem to work it out.
Something occurs to her now, something out of the past: a riddle she was once
told by an undergraduate. “Do you know why there’s no such thing as an
omnipotent being?” she says from out of nowhere.
“Tell me.”
“Because all you have to do is ask such a being to create an object so heavy it
can’t lift it. If it can create such an object, then it means there’s now something in
the universe it can’t do, which means it’s not really omnipotent. On the other
hand, if it can’t create such an object, then that also means it’s not omnipotent.
Hence, no such thing.”
Adam smiles in the darkness of the car. “I never heard that before,” he tells her.
“It’s what we heathen scientists call logic.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” he asks her. “As a heathen scientist?”
She sighs to herself. “A heathen, probably. But a scientist? I don’t know
anymore.”
“You’re really not going back to Princeton?”
“I’m not sure I can. You’ve no idea what it was like... especially the last few
months.”
“But what about your work? Don’t you believe in it?”
“Sure I believe in it.”
“So why don’t you take it someplace else? Princeton’s not the only school in the
country.”
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She shakes her head, the movement infinitesimal. “You don’t understand,” she
says. “My work, my thesis, it’s all been compromised... or maybe tarnished is a
better word.”
“Tarnished? How?”
She has to think about that for a few seconds. “All right, let’s say for the sake of
argument I was part of the establishment, know what I mean? Let’s say the
physics equivalent of Jesse Eberhardt. Don’t you think my work would be a lot
more accessible by now? I’m not saying everyone would agree with it but at least
there’d be some dialogue, some back and forth. As it is, it’s never mentioned. It’s
like there’s this veil of silence on the subject and you know why? Because I don’t
submit to their pronouncements. I argue too much, I cause disruption on their
nice peaceful campus, so guess what… my thesis suffers. Sad, don’t you think?
Sad but true... and that’s why I can’t really take it anywhere else. My reputation
precedes me. Call up Caltech, Berkeley, MIT… I’m sure you’ll find they’ve all
heard of me.”
He doesn’t reply and she’s not sure whether he’s trying to empathize or he’s just
being noncommittal. She can’t read his expression.
“You know,” she says at last, “sometimes I feel like I’ve lived two lives... home
and school.”
“Religion and science.”
“Yes... religion and science. It’s like they both came easily to me. I didn’t even
have to study that much. Okay, that’s not true, I did study. It was my whole life
but it never seemed like I had to try too hard, not like some of the other kids. It
was more like... I don’t know... a kind of osmosis. It all just happened. I can’t
really explain it.”
“And now you’ve given up on both of them.”
“So it would appear.”
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“Seems a pity.”
“Does it? Yes, I suppose it does in a way. It’s just that sometimes I think... well, I
just think there has to be something more.”
“Something more?”
“Something more, something else. It’s all so primitive... religion, science... I mean
as a way of explaining it all. Don’t you ever think about that?” She waits but once
again he doesn’t respond and it makes her wonder if what she’s saying makes
any sense; or if what she says ever makes any sense. “You know, all I’ve ever
asked is for a rational discussion, nothing more, just a reasonable, intelligent
debate and all I ever get is...” She’s about to say “condescension” but she stops
herself in time. All of a sudden, she doesn’t have the patience for any of this.
“Look, I’m sorry, all right? Just forget it. I think I’ve said enough for one
evening.”
Adam continues driving for several minutes before he glances at her. “You don’t
like me much, do you?” he says.
The question stuns her for the moment and she looks at him briefly before
turning back to stare at the road once again. Is that the impression she gives?
How can that be? They were having a great evening until Jesse came along,
weren’t they? Weren’t they? Why can’t she ever seem to gauge these things? It’s
like she has some kind of social deficiency syndrome, some personal disorder
that prevents her from appreciating the basic nuances of human discourse. What
other explanation could there be?
“I was going to say the same about you,” she tells him.
“What? That I don’t like you? Why on earth wouldn’t I like you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The word ‘bitch’ comes to mind.”
“Is that what you think you are?”
“Of course. That’s what everyone thinks. You know what they used to call me at
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school?”
“God Herself,” he replies.
She laughs out loud at the fact that he knows it. “Who told you?”
“My brotherinlaw, Ralph.”
“Your brotherinlaw, Ralph,” she echoes. For some reason, that strikes her as
even funnier and she goes on laughing until she has tears in her eyes. She can’t
recall the last time that happened. Once she finally recovers, she becomes more
thoughtful and says: “Look, Adam...” She sees him react at the sound of his name
and it makes her realize it’s the first time she’s actually used it, even though he
invited her to do so earlier in the evening. “Do you still want me to do your
interview?”
“Of course.”
“Even after tonight?”
“Are you offering?”
“If you’ll put up with me.”
“It’ll still be about faith. I can’t help that.”
“I know, but I’ll try not to take it personally.”
“And what brings you to this decision, if I may ask?”
She thinks about it but she’s not certain she wants to answer so she allows it to
slide by like the dark landscape that surrounds them. Of course, she knows only
too well what brings her to that decision. It’s because right now her life is so
empty she’s about ready to scream, simple as that. Nothing could be more
obvious and she has no idea why he doesn’t see it. For her it’s like there’s a neon
sign hanging right above her with a big arrow pointing downwards like they
have at used car dealerships, and the arrow’s flashing “lonely, lonely, lonely,”
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followed by another sequence saying “pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.”
She’s thankful he doesn’t repeat the question and they keep heading north until
they find the hidden turnoff that leads eventually to the house. Then, once
they’ve reached the gated driveway, she says: “You really think I’d be perfect?”
“Actually, I think you’d be more than perfect. I think you’d be terrific.”
They come to a halt at the doorway, which is lit up by the security floodlights
that the Ministry installed for her father, but they don’t get out immediately. “I’m
serious,” she says. “How do you know I’ll be any good? I might fail abismally.”
“You might but I doubt it.”
“Why?”
He looks at her. “Why? Because making that kind of call is what I’m paid to do.
And besides,” he adds, “I’ve heard you when you get going.” He exits the car and
walks around with an exaggerated sense of chivalry to open the door for her.
“Friends?” he says, extending his hand to help her out.
The anger she built up at the restaurant has long since subsided and right now
other thoughts are percolating in her brain, the thoughts of a lonely, pathetic
person with a sign flashing. This time, the thoughts are about inviting him in,
about the warmth of the cognac she never usually touches and about being next
to someone in the bed she hasn’t shared for so long; and for a single moment
she’s seduced by these thoughts but like the coward she is, she backs away
instead of confronting them. Why does she do that? Is it the fear of rejection? Or
of acceptance? Finally, all she can do is repeat his word “Friends.” Then she
reaches out to shake his hand formally before leaving him to go back once more
into her shell.
Tonight, like every other night, her only company will be the cat.
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5
“Every production must resemble its author.” Miguel de Cervantes
The other half of Adam Olmstead’s current relationship finally arrives at her
cubicle deep within the corporate bowels of the CNN Center.
Her name is Carla Giannaros and she’s already in stressedout mode as she tries
to settle into her day. She dumps her purse on the floor, takes off her jacket and
goes through the motions of changing her shoes: from the ungainly crosstrainers
she uses for negotiating the Atlanta rush hour to one of six pairs of office pumps
she keeps beneath her desk.
It’s not even ninethirty yet but she’s almost an hour late and it’s threatening to
turn into one lousy Wednesday morning: first the shower drain was blocked and
she had to suction it free; then she found that the blouse she really wanted to
wear had a dry cleaning stain on it; and then on the way in, she had to fight her
way through near gridlock following a hazardous materials spill near the
Williams Street exit. Finally, as a fitting climax to this comedy of errors, she was
just turning the last corner when some jerk, trying to steer an elephantine SUV
with one hand while talking on his cellphone with the other, managed to clip
her front wing, scraping the metal and wrecking the entire headlight mounting
in the process. When she got out of the car she was ready to kill, a formidable
case of road rage in overdrive.
Still frazzled even now, she at last flops down in the ergonomic chair she
wheedled out of procurement and for a few blissful seconds, she closes her eyes
and shuts everything out. There’s both voice mail and email to answer, plus a
pile of hard copy items stacked in front of her, but her selfhelp tape says that
when she’s in this state, nothing should be able to reach her. It’s called “The Two
Minute Timeout” and it tells her that the world can wait for two minutes until
her vibrations are synchronized. Of course, at the network, two minutes can seem
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like an eternity but the tape says there should be no excuses; so here she is trying
hard, doing her best to selfadjust and selfregulate as the colors of the
kaleidoscope behind her eyelids play out their fantasy. But after less than a
minute, she hears the sound of the phone and in an automatic gesture, reaches
out and grabs it before she’s consciously able to overcome the instinct.
“Carla...” she announces, and hears the carefully practised, alto elocution of the
department’s collegegrad assistant.
“I managed to postpone your eightthirty with Harriet, all right?”
“Until when?”
“Tenthirty.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“My usual subterfuge.” Her name is Kimberley and she talks like that because
she desperately wants to be discovered, to become the new Christiane
Amanpour, fearless in her flak jacket while rebel armies rumble past. “By the
way, you have Adam waiting on line two.”
“Adam? Now?”
“You did say to always put him through.”
“I know, I know, but...”
“Want me to lose him?”
Carla thinks about it but she can’t do that, not to Adam. It may not be much of a
relationship, reaching across a thousand miles as it does, but right now it’s the
only one she’s got so she gives up another sigh and tells Kimberley fine, she’ll
take it.
“Hi,” she says, but even with that one syllable, she can’t hide how she feels.
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“Somebody’s in a mood.”
“Damn right I’m in a mood. And so would you be if your car just got dinged for
six hundred bucks.”
“Ouch.”
“You can say that again. You were supposed to call me last night.”
“Yeah, was kinda busy, sorry about that. You want flowers?”
“Don’t be patronizing.”
“You want a new car?”
She takes a breath. “What I want is for you to call when you say you’re going to
call and not the following morning when I’m already at work and already late.”
“Actually this is about work.”
“It is?”
“You get the new outline I sent you?”
“No, I haven’t even opened my mail yet, that’s how late I am.” Then, more
suspiciously: “What new outline?”
“I made a few modifications. You didn’t see it?”
“No, I told you. What kind of modifications?”
“Open it up and you’ll see.”
“What kind of modifications?”
“A better concept.”
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“What the hell...”
“The guy died, what do you want me to do?”
“I thought you were looking into the archive stuff.”
“Nah, wouldn’t have worked. It was turning into a biopic.”
“It was your idea.”
“I know, what can I say? I was wrong. It happens.”
“Adam, for God’s sake... I pulled a lot of strings to get you that approval. The guy
died, so we moved fast... isn’t that what you wanted? How can I go back now?
Why can’t we just find another evangelist?”
“Another evangelist, just like that? You think they grow on trees? It look long
enough to seal the deal with this guy, I start looking for someone else it’ll take
forever. Besides, this new idea is better, I promise you. Harriet will lap it up.”
“Harriet? Thanks a lot. What am I, chopped liver?”
“You know what I mean. Look, just read it through and you’ll see, okay? Call me
back, I’ll be on my cell.”
“Don’t talk to me about cellphones,” she fires back, but he obviously doesn’t
have a clue what she’s talking about and she’s in no shape to explain. “Christ,
Adam...” she says, full of her own frustration.
“What?”
“You think that’s all I’ve got to do this morning?”
“Please, just read it, okay? Just scan through it, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Not this morning.”
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“Why not?”
“Adam...”
“What? What’s the problem?”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This... this thing we do.”
“What thing?”
“This personal favor thing.”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Okay, so what do you suggest?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well I do. You want to avoid it, here are three options...”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“One, I stop working with CNN, which will probably leave me penniless and
starving. Two, you get yourself shifted to another department, which may or may
not be in your best interests. Three, I bypass you and deal directly with Harriet...
Okay, make a choice.”
“Are you done?”
“No,” he says. “Actually, there’s a fourth one, too.”
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Carla’s only too aware of the fourth one which is that they stop seeing each other
but she doesn’t want to know about that; not this morning anyway. “Dammit,
Adam.”
“Look Carla, I’m doing my job, all right? If I didn’t know you from a penguin, I’d
still be calling you. It’s what I do... and it’s what you’re supposed to be doing
too.”
“You don’t have to tell me my job.”
“This is the job, Carla, what we talk about on the phone like this. The rest is just
getting it done.”
“All right, all right, you wanna give me a break already with the lecture?” When
she’s like this, she sometimes allows her origins to break through. It’s her own
code to tell the world that, beneath the career gloss, she’s still just a kid from
Jersey who can’t be messed around. The worst thing is that she knows she’s being
unreasonable; but then again, she’s the one being compromised here. She’s the
one has to go present his stuff when everyone in the building seems to know that
she and Adam are an item. It’s the number one subject for gossip. And even if
people do understand what kind of hesitant, faltering relationship it really is,
which is doubtful, they can still see it as something of a breach of ethics just from
the pointofview of personal access. The mere fact that he can get through
whenever he likes is clear evidence of that.
“So you going to take a look or what?” he says to her.
“Not right now.”
“Carla, it’s important.”
She can’t cope with this. “When did you send it?” she asks him, her voice already
tired. “This morning?”
“Yeah.”
“So it may not even be here yet. We had some problems with the server last
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night.” She sees an orange light flash on the phone in front of her. “I gotta go,
another call.”
“Carla...”
“I’m not promising anything.”
“Do what you can, okay?”
“I have to go.” She cuts him off before he can say any more and breathes a long
sigh before punching in the new caller with a major sense of grievance. It’s just
not fair that Adam puts her in this position. “What?” she says into the receiver
with far too much vehemence. So far, the day’s been less than promising.
• • •
Just over an hour later, she’s scurrying to the postponed status meeting, her
destination being the private, secluded office that’s been occupied by Harriet Jo
Meade for as long as anyone can recall.
At 63 years of age, Harriet’s what they call a fixture around the building, a true
Turner brat, and the house that Ted built is nothing if not loyal to its fixtures.
Now at the exalted level of “Vice President, Long Format Production,” she can
legitimately claim to be one of the originals, having been with the organization
ever since those first tentative days of the Falklands War back in ’82, performing a
wide variety of roles and serving the cause faithfully through all those years
when prospects looked bleak and they weren’t making a dime. Then, like
everyone else who hung in, she reaped her reward at the cusp of the nineties
with the collapse of the Berlin Wall, followed soon by the near mythical coverage
of the first Gulf War. They were the ones who first made stars out of the earnest
young Dick Cheney, of Stormin’ Norman in his telegenic fatigues, of the grave
faced Colin Powell and of the “Scud Stud,” everyone’s stereotype of what a front
line reporter should be. Those were glory days for the network, a time when it
became a global household name, a mustwatch, realtime broadcast for
Washington, for Baghdad, and for everyone in between. Once the shooting was
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over, however, it didn’t take long for the euphoria to die down and what followed
was a long decade of lesser crises, from Anita Hill to Rodney King to O.J.
Simpson to Monica Lewinsky. With those endlessly analysed legal events, plus a
whole slew of new station entries and finally a megasized corporate takeover by
TimeWarner, the organization’s preeminent reputation began to slip
considerably... until the day of the 9/11 attack. At that moment, starting at 8:48 on
that shocking Tuesday morning, the network was reborn, with Aaron Brown and
Paula Zahn watching along with their audience as the great buildings fell.
Suddenly the empire was back – in Afghanistan, in Iraq – its continued existence
due largely to the people who stuck around, people like Harriet Jo Meade.
By comparison, Carla Giannaros is no more than a novice and for her, Harriet’s
office is like hallowed ground. No matter how many times she comes here, it
always feels as if she’s on some sort of pilgrimage and it inevitably makes her
overly anxious. The sense of time pressure doesn’t help either and when she
arrives, she’s immediately waved into a chair as Harriet finishes up a call; no
“good morning,” no “how are you,” no social interplay whatsoever.
In Carla’s binder, below several other items on the agenda, is a printout of
Adam’s revised proposal. When, after twenty minutes, they finally work their
way through to it, she’s almost reluctant to mention it and she sees her boss look
out from behind that deeply lined face except Harriet won’t even acknowledge
she’s got lines. She calls it “experience.” For her, it’s a badge of honor, like a long
service medal for having simply survived so many campaigns; and unlike so
many in her line of work, she never once contemplated the idea of a surgeon’s
knife to smooth it all out. That’s for showbiz, she always says, that’s for the
princesses and the hotshots, and what this network’s really all about is news;
that’s what the middle letter “N” stands for.
“So?” she says, eyeing the document that Carla’s holding. “What you got there?
Is it a secret or are we going to share it?”
“It’s from Adam.”
“Really? What’s up now? He got everything he asked for and then some. What’s
he want, blood?”
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“It’s not that.”
“What then?”
“It’s kind of a new idea.”
“Another one? Hey, well, we like new ideas, don’t we? Ever open door, that’s us.”
But the look on Carla’s face makes Harriet retreat from her jovial cynicism. “Oh, I
see. Something tells me the new newidea’s going to cost me more than the old
newidea.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve been dealing with Adam a long time, sweetie. Not quite in the same way
you have, but a long time nonetheless. So you gonna tell me or what?”
“Maybe you should just look at the concept.”
Harriet takes the document she’s handed but doesn’t put it down. She just
continues to hold it in midair above the desk at the exact point she received it.
“First tell me what you think?”
Once again, Carla senses the shallow wave of embarrassment lapping at her, that
unpleasant but increasingly familiar feeling of awkwardness about her position.
“I’m not sure...” she begins, but then changes her mind in an effort to be more
definitive. “I really don’t think it’s my place to say,” she says with as much
confidence as she can find.
For a moment, Harriet just looks at her. Then in a sweeping dramatic gesture, she
slams the Citi Fieldf down on her desk. “The hell you don’t.”
“Look, I’m sorry but...” Carla doesn’t even get to finish her sentence.
“Enough!” The roar reverberates around the room and probably out into the
corridor too. “I don’t wanna hear any of that bullshit, you understand? Do you?
Now, either you do the job I pay you for, or you get your ass straight out the door.
Your choice, kiddo. Make up your mind.”
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Carla stares at her, even more aggrieved than she was before. What is this? Get
Carla day? She has no idea what to say or how to respond.
Harriet, however, is never at a loss for words. “Dear mother of God,” she says
and shakes her head as if not sure what to make of this new generation. “When I
ask for your opinion, I would like you to give it to me, you hear? No excuses, no
flimflam, you just give it to me. Am I making myself clear?” At this, she relaxes a
little, her voice back to the more usual rasp. “Good, so now if it’s not too much
trouble, I want you to please tell me if it’s worth my while reading this thing or if
I’m going to be wasting my time because, at my age, I don’t have all that time to
waste, you get what I’m saying? Now, what am I looking at here? And make it
concise.”
Carla takes a long breath, then another, just to get herself back in the groove. She
can’t afford two minutes for a timeout in this situation, despite what the tape tells
her. The people who made it have obviously never met Harriet. “Basically, Adam
says we shouldn’t be doing the project this way.”
“What?”
“He says there are too many biographies on TV already. He thinks if we open like
this, it’ll kill the series before it starts.”
“Jesus, he had us jumping through hoops.”
“I know and so does he. He says he was wrong.”
“Boy, that’s something you don’t hear every day. So what’s he saying now?”
“Well, it seems he met the guy’s daughter and that gave him an idea for a new
concept.”
“What new concept?”
“Science... She’s a quantum physicist.”
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“She’s a what?”
“At Princeton, famous in her field.”
“And what does science have to do with faith?”
“That’s just it, that’s the point. There’s an inherent conflict. His idea is to use that
conflict as a setup, to generate some controversy and then prove the reverse...
how they’ve been working handinglove over the centuries...” At this point,
Carla does her best to go through several of Adam’s scenarios but after a while,
she just rolls to a stop. She knows she’s not doing them justice and she shakes her
head in frustration. She can’t do this. “It’s all there, the whole outline,” she
complains, indicating the document that Harriet’s still holding. “You just have to
read it.”
“All right, all right.”
“For what it’s worth, he says it’ll be kickass.”
“He always says that.”
“He also says it’s the kind of thing we can crosspollinate.” One thing Carla’s
picked up on since she’s been here is the language and she notes how it seems to
catch Harriet’s attention. Crosspollination is what’s supposed to happen when a
topic’s so big that it can be spread across the entire convergent spectrum of AOL
TimeWarner media systems: from broadcast to print to portal and beyond.
“How about interviews?”
“He plans to have clergy from the major religions talk about their attitude
towards science... plus a scientist doing it the other way around, why so many of
them believe in God and so forth. That’s where the Chadwick woman comes in.
She’d be the scientist.”
“And why her especially?”
“Her father was an evangelist. Plus she seems to have all the credentials, some
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kind of whiz kid apparently. Princeton by the age of sixteen, PhD by twenty, in
charge of a whole research team by twentyseven. He says she’s... quote...
‘brilliant and outspoken...’ unquote.”
“Sounds like he’s taken quite a shine to her.”
A comment like that doesn’t exactly help Carla’s attitude. She finds it insensitive
at best, insulting at worst, and she has to summon up all her professionalism to
try and ignore it. However, she does figure that now might be the time to offer a
reality check before going any further. “Anyway, that’s the good news...” she says.
But Harriet is there ahead of her. “And the bad news is that it’s going to cost
more. I know, you told me.”
“Actually, it’s considerably more.”
“How much more?”
“Close to double.”
“Is he out of his mind?”
“He believes the investment’s justified. He says we should launch the series as if
we mean it. He thinks we should consider it a real pilot and plan accordingly, as
opposed to thinking of it as a oneoff and hoping for the best.”
“Does he now.”
Surprisingly, Harriet doesn’t dismiss it out of hand. She just sits there staring into
midspace, her head furrowed and her smokeimpregnated eyes narrowed. She
still gets through a couple of packs a week, even now she’s cut down. Before she
can reply, however, the shirtsleeved Bryce Naylor appears in the doorway. He
has the air of a bureaucrat but he’s in charge of Domestic Networks and
technically, according to the dotted lines on the bar chart, he’s Harriet’s boss.
“You at the eleven?” he asks her.
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She checks her watch. “Getting there.”
“You know if we’re seeing the quarterlies?”
“I believe so,” she replies without much enthusiasm. To her the business used to
be about words and pictures, about stories and leads, but ever since the damn
merger it seems to be all about numbers, nothing but numbers.
Bryce nods, sighs and pushes his hornrims back up his nose all at the same time.
Then, by way of response, he just taps his hand on the door jam a couple of times
before moving on.
Carla, of course, has no notion of what they’re talking about since she’s not privy
to excom matters and she just sits there waiting, gazing obliquely at the series of
photos on the desk: there’s Harriet with her late husband, the investment
counselor; also the various nieces and nephews that she dotes on; and there on
the far side is her sister Amelia Jane, the retired superior court judge, standing on
the porch of the weathered oceanfront cottage in Nantucket that’s been in the
Meade family for generations.
“So, what do you think?” says Harriet once he’s gone. But she’s not talking about
the meeting, she’s just picking up where she left off with Adam’s proposal.
Carla pauses before answering and, again, there’s the same reluctance. She’s
trying to frame a reply but she’s taking too long about it, too long for Harriet
anyway.
“Am I talking to myself?” she asks.
“No, I heard you.”
“So what’s the goddamn answer? At the tone, please state your opinion... Beep.”
Carla’s finding it increasingly hard to deal with this. The bias, she feels, has
become builtin, hardwired into the circuitry, and will probably remain in place
until someone, maybe herself, decides to push the delete button. “Yes,” she
replies, “I think the idea has potential.”
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“Well thank the Lord for that,” says Harriet. “An opinion at last, thank you
kindly.” Then she becomes dismissive. “Okay, leave it with me. I see where he’s
going, let me noodle it.”
“He says he’d like a quick answer.”
“What else is new? All right, tell him I like it in principle but I gotta take it
upstairs. You tell him no green light until I say so, I want that very clear. You got
that?”
“Is there a problem? I mean, apart from the budget...”
“Sweetie, the budget is the problem. Ever hear of R.O.I.? Firstyear economics? It
stands for ‘Return On Investment,’ which means we only hand out money if our
friend Bryce thinks we can eventually recoup it. All right, tell Adam if the
quarterlies hold, he should have an answer by tomorrow midday. Best I can do.
Now get outa here, let me do some work.”
Carla gathers her stuff together, closes up her binder and leaves the office with
very mixed feelings. Was that a good meeting, she’s asking herself, or is she just
digging her own grave like this? It’s difficult to know with Harriet. Sometimes
she makes out like she’s no more than the network’s eccentric old den mother but
on other occasions, she can be just plain nasty. Nobody can be around any
organization that long without knowing a thing or two about infighting and
Carla’s well aware of how other poor wretches have made the mortal error of
underestimating her.
She decides she can’t return straight to her cubicle, not just yet, so she stops in at
the cafeteria for the breakfast she missed. Mounted on a wall is one of the
ubiquitous monitors showing a business update from Tokyo, the reporter
mouthing mute words from Shinjuku while crowds of identically dressed
salarymen heave their way onto a train behind. As Carla lines up with her tray,
she’s thinking that maybe Adam’s fourth option is starting to look like the right
one after all.
Maybe she should just end it once and for all, cut it loose, and make an
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announcement to the staff... “Ladies and gentlemen, the persons you know
fondly as Carla and Adam are hereby no longer an item. They have ceased all
activities other than the most strictly professional and will, from this time forth,
conduct themselves within the most scrupulous parameters of morality. There
will therefore be no more gossip nor innuendo of any sort and perpetrators will
be herewith banished from the empire. Thank you for your attention.”
• • •
Adam Olmstead decides to begin his preparations even as the CNN machinery
continues to grind. He therefore arrives at the Merle Chadwick Ministry to keep
his scheduled appointment, even if he doesn’t yet know if there’s any point
because such is the nature of production.
This is a very different place, however, now that its spiritual leader has passed
away. At the counter, the receptionist wears a fittingly somber expression and
behind her, the large oil portrait has been draped in black ribbon. Even the
cheery Denise Hillier is very subdued when she finally appears and they ride up
to the fourth floor in a respectful silence.
“Mr. Olmstead, come in, come in,” says Jesse Eberhardt from his corner office.
This time, however, he’s not alone. “May I present an old friend, Lester
Shaughnessy, here to help us with the search.”
Adam turns to see a man rising from the leather sofa, a little older than Jesse but
much leaner, almost concave in stature. Unlikely as it may be, he’s wearing a
plaid shirt open at the neck, a pair of black jeans and black biker boots; but
what’s even more surprising is how well he wears it all for someone his age, as if
it’s an integral part of his personality. “Yes, of course,” says Adam, recalling the
consultant’s name from the other night, “good to meet you.” They shake hands,
then at Jesse’s bidding, sit themselves down in opposite chairs with Lester
Shaughnessy resuming his central place on the sofa between them. “So,” Adam
says to him, “making any headway?”
“Sure, we’re talking to some people.” The voice is as laid back as the style.
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“Bound to take a little time.”
“What we’re thinking,” adds Jesse, “is maybe work a rotation for a while, you
know? Run a series of candidates as guest hosts each week until we sort things
out. Might buy us some breathing space. Maybe call it ‘Sunday at the Merle
Chadwick Ministry’ or some such variation, keep the brand alive.”
“Makes sense,” replies Adam, although he really doesn’t want to get bogged
down with Jesse’s own internal problems. It’s none of his affair. “Well, I know
you’re busy,” he says, “so I don’t want to take up too much of your time. What I
was wondering is whether you might have had any further thoughts on the
project we were discussing?”
“Well now,” says Jesse. “I’ve been thinking about that a little bit... Can I get you
anything, by the way?”
“I’m fine for now, thanks.”
“I wanted to thank you again for dinner.”
“More than welcome.”
“Didn't exactly go the way you planned, I'm sure.”
“Lots of things happen we never plan for,” says Adam. “The only difference is
how we cope with them.”
“True enough,” replies Jesse, “but sometimes, you know how it is... heat of the
moment and so on... Anyways, here’s where I’m at on this one. You were quite
right, of course, in what you said. The exposure wouldn’t hurt us at all, long as
it’s the right kind, so I have to say I’m inclined to go along... What d’you think,
Lester? Think it’d be a good thing for us to do?” It’s obvious the two of them have
already discussed it.
“Well, of course now, it’s not much compared to the first concept,” says the other
man, directing his reply towards Adam. “But I understand the pressures, Mr.
Olmstead, so if that’s out of the question, there may be some value to the
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Ministry in the new proposal. Not a lot, granted, but probably enough to make it
worthwhile.”
“Thing is,” adds Jesse, “I don’t know how much latitude we’re talking about here
in terms of the content you mentioned. Faith and science... as you may have
gathered, that’s kind of a lump for an oldtimer like me to swallow... so I guess
what I’m trying to get at is what kind of safeguards can we build in?”
“I appreciate your concerns,” Adam replies in his best diplomatic tone, “but you
have to understand, I’m bound by my own agreements with the network. It’s not
my place to surrender editorial control to any third party. All I can offer is what
we call ‘limited context control’ wherever your name or location appears. Would
that be acceptable?”
Jesse sits back in his chair. He’s changed somehow, hardly the same man that
Adam first met here just a few days ago. “Y’know, when I was a boy, we had a
riddle,” he says. “How long’s a piece of string? And you know what the answer
is? I’ll tell you. Twice the length from one end to the middle.” He attempts a
laugh but can’t quite seem to manage it. “Which all goes to say that this
whaddyacallit, this limited context control? Well, it sounds to me like it’s a
fairly loose definition.”
Adam’s been dealing with people like this his entire career, people who want to
negotiate every last advantage. Occasionally he answers them straight but far
more often he finds it more effective to answer them in kind, to play their own
game right back at them. Instead of a riddle, however, he smiles gently and offers
up an anecdote. “Ever been to Jerusalem?" he asks. “Inside the Old City they’ve
got this market they call a souk. Byzantine place, like a labyrinth, where everyone
comes at you with the deal of a lifetime... except it’s not, because the guy’s set the
initial price so high that even if you pay ten percent of what he’s asking, he still
makes a fair profit. Now there, they expect you to haggle, it’s part of the culture,
but here... Well, like I said the other night, Mr. Eberhardt, all I want to do is make
a TV show. ‘Limited context control’ is the standard phrase we use and I’m afraid
I can’t offer you any more than that.”
The great Eberhardt laugh. “All right, all right, Mr. Olmstead, you made your
point, I get the picture.” Then to his friend Lester, he says: “He makes a pretty
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speech, don’t you think? Might just be we’re looking for someone like that.”
Adam also sees the humor at the thought of standing behind a pulpit but he
doesn’t respond with any kind of followup. He just wants to get this done
without any more distractions. He can waste a lot of time like this. “So
gentlemen?” he says, as if he’s returning to business after the entertainment.
“How about it?”
“Put up or shut up, right?” says Jesse. “All right, fine. Draw it up and we’ll look it
over but in essence I think we can agree. What kind of timing we looking at
here?”
“Well, depends on the network but all being well, I’d say we’d be looking to have
a crew up here, oh, let's say a week from now. How’s that sound to you?”
“Sure, that sounds about right. Just let me know so’s I can make sure some of the
team’s around. I’m gonna be giving ’em some vacation leave, you understand,
just while we get ourselves reorganized. Never obvious, how to proceed at a time
like this... revenues to consider and so on. Sure glad we never went public, I can
tell you that.”
“Were you thinking about it?”
“We had some plans a while back but it was Merle nixed the idea. Said he didn’t
want us taking our marching orders from a shareholder committee... and he was
right too. You know, I’ll be honest with you, some people saw him as just a front
man, just another country boy evangelist with an overdose of charm, but he was
a whole lot more than that, yes sir.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell Evelyn but, well, I don’t know. It’s like she
doesn’t want to hear. You got any thoughts on that score at all, Mr. Olmstead?”
“You mean about Ms. Chadwick?” This is a whole other subject now and Adam
sees that Jesse’s moving into reflective mode, as if there’s some need to talk. It
seems a little uncomfortable with Lester Shaughnessy sitting silently between
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them but presumably, if he’s an old friend, he at least knows something about it.
“Not really,” Adam replies, “but it doesn’t take a genius to see that whatever it is,
it seems to run pretty deep.”
“Well, you’re right about that, no question.”
“What kind of father was the Reverend, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“A busy one,” says Jesse. It’s as if the loyalty factor instantly throws up a barrier
against any objective assessment of his long time colleague. Then, realizing his
haste, he relaxes his shoulders, sighs, and runs his hand over that broad, jowly
face of his. “Oh sure, I won’t deny he could’ve done more, especially after Nancy
passed away. That was his wife, you know, Evelyn’s mother. Fine woman, saltof
theearth. You met her, didn’t you Lester?” Jesse waits for the nod. “Yes sir, hit ol’
Merle real hard when she died, real hard. And well, I don’t know, but maybe I
expected more from Evelyn by way of support. Don’t get me wrong, she’s got
some wonderful qualities, wonderful. Worked hard to get where she is, I’ll say
that for her, never messed around with the drink and the drugs like some I know
of. And gifted too. Mind like a steel trap when it comes to her science. No, to be
fair, I have to say she did very well for herself down there at Princeton, made us
all very proud. But there was always something else...”
“Rebellion?”
It’s something of a stock summary but Jesse’s not quick to answer, as if the truth
isn’t that obvious, at least not from his perspective.
“There were no overt acts,” he answers, “nothing like the other night, not when
she was younger. Always polite, always came home for the holidays. Perfect little
lady in many respects... No, more like her way was to just bury herself in her
work, know what I’m saying? Bury herself so deep she could hardly ever get out,
even to socialize. Let’s just say that maybe her emotional maturity was never all it
might have been.”
Adam offers just the hint of an expression. It sounds like a reasonable assessment
and he credits Jesse with trying to be as fairminded as he can under the
circumstances. But at the same time, he really doesn’t want to be a part of this,
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not with fixing the Ministry and not with analyzing Evelyn. “Well, I’m sure it’ll
all work itself out, Mr. Eberhardt. Sometimes all it takes is a little patience.” Then
to bring it all to a conclusion, he climbs to his feet, obliging the other two men do
likewise. “Appreciate your time,” he says, shaking hands all round. “We’ll be in
touch very soon.”
Once he’s back in the car, Adam is able to conduct a mental checklist and is not
sure he likes the result. He’s making a little progress but what with the Reverend
passing and then his own change of concept, not to mention Carla’s attitude, it’s
painfully slow going. Unlikely as it may seem, right now the only one he can
truly rely on is Evelyn.
• • •
An hour later, he installs himself in the motel coffee shop in anticipation of the
call from Atlanta. While he waits, he scans this morning’s edition of USA Today
and sips at a tall glass of cream soda. It’s the exact same kind he used to love as a
kid, except that now he can hardly believe how mouthpuckeringly sweet it is
and he calls over to the waitress, Jackie, to see if she wouldn’t mind changing it
for a Coke.
Jackie’s a solid woman, short and darkhaired, could be part Mohawk from the
looks of her, and she and Adam seem to have struck up a passing friendship.
“That church fella,” she says to him as she puts the fresh beverage on the table.
“That the one you came here to film?”
“That’s right.”
“But he’s dead now.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Good riddance, you want my opinion. All the same, those people.”
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“You think so?”
“He was the worst though. Real sonofabitch, you ask me.”
Adam is a little thrown at the harshness of the sentiment but given her likely
roots, it’s not hard to figure. There’s little love lost between the First Nations and
the religious establishment so he decides to keep any discussion on that subject
to a minimum. “So what’s on special today?” he says.
“Spaghetti with meatballs. Or we got the pizza, two for one.”
“Nah, I’ll just take the club.”
The club sandwich is what he’s had almost every day since he’s been here and
she nods as if it’s exactly what she expected. According to her worldview, people
don’t change not goddamn church people and not the big shots who come all
the way out here to film them.
As Adam waits for his meal to arrive, he goes back to the paper but his
concentration has been broken and his eyes drift towards the line of windows
and the charcoal skies beyond. This time he forces his thoughts away from
Evelyn and back to Carla, which for him is a much more pressing matter because
it’s not just personal, it’s business too. He’s been dealing successfully with
Harriet Jo Meade for many years now and he realizes only too well that starting
an affair with her assistant may not have been the smartest thing he’s ever done
in his life. In retrospect, if he’d been thinking straight, he would have realized it
couldn’t possibly work out. There was always bound to be a professional clash
somewhere along the way. It was inevitable.
Of course it began easily enough, as these things often do, when he invited her to
attend last year’s Cannes showing of his trilogy “The Original People,” which
featured the Inuit of the Arctic, the Masai of the Savannah and the Uluru of the
Outback, and how they’re coping with technological change. The series had been
nominated for an award and Adam thought what better way to say thank you
than by bringing his client to share some of the sundrenched glitz of the festival.
He flew her over first class and installed her in an adjacent room at the Carlton,
which for his company represented a sizeable expense. At the time, however,
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Adam felt it was worth the investment and, as expected, she was supremely
enamored with the whole affair, a Jersey girl loose on the riviera amongst the
glitterati and the paparazzi.
With the brilliance of hindsight, what happened was entirely predictable a late
night of partying, a little too much premier cru and a final elevator ride together at
sometime close to four in the morning. By that point it was all just too easy and it
played out like one of the features being reviewed... Open on an establishing kiss
in soft focus... Cut to a closeup meeting of tongues... Dissolve to fingers
unfastening shirt buttons and the slippage of shoulder straps... Insert a long
glimpse of skin... Climax with a frenetic sequence on crisp linen sheets. If he’s
being honest with himself, he doesn’t really remember that much about it but
when he awoke the following morning, the sun was hurting his eyes and he
could hardly believe that his network client was serving him coffee and
croissants in bed.
Yet he has to admit that at the time it was extremely enjoyable, much to savor and
nothing to regret, the ideal vacation affair... but of course, that’s where it should
have ended. Hedonism can only be taken so far and perhaps that’s why today it
all feels so insubstantial, a bit like eating so much meringue that eventually the
body starts to cry out for sustenance. There’s just no real commitment to any of it.
It’s all just a facade, a fading Potempkin of an affair, which can so easily blow
over any time a gust happens along like now for instance, with this sudden
crisis of career ethics she seems to be having.
His thoughts are interrupted, first by Jackie arriving with his club sandwich, and
then in close order by the first few notes of his “Ode to Joy” ring tone.
“Adam?”
“Yeah, hi Carla... So?”
“Green light. You were right, they loved it, the whole package.”
“Hey, that’s great, good for you. How about budget?”
“A few parameters but nothing too serious. I’ll forward the details. Oh, and
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Harriet wants to see the footage from the Ministry before you do anything else.
They’re a little gunshy about what a scientist might say about faith. Is that all
right?”
“I guess it’ll have to be.” It’s an unusual condition but not unreasonable,
considering what he’s put them through recently.
“Listen, Adam...”
“Yeah, I know, we have to talk.”
“It’s just that... Look, I’m sorry but I can’t help it. You don’t know how it is with
Harriet. I got it both ways. She chewed me out when I happened to mention our
relationship and then it was like she resented me because it was there in the first
place. What am I supposed to do?”
“Try not mentioning it.”
“You’re not helping.”
“So what do you want me to say?” There’s silence for a while, to the point where
he thinks he may have lost the call. “Carla?”
That’s when she comes storming back. “Everything’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
He feels like he’s being bushwhacked and he’s not sure how to respond. “Easy?”
he says to her. “You think it’s easy what I do?” As far as he’s concerned, his life
isn’t easy at all. He’s got a payroll to meet and a company to keep afloat, all
dependent solely on one main client and the creativity he can muster when he
gets up each morning. Easy? He’s lucky he doesn’t have the scar from a
quadruple bypass. He doesn’t need this nonsense right now and he’s about ready
to hang up.
“Adam, look...”
“It’s okay Carla, I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
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“I just need to know... Do we have something or don’t we?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I never know.”
“Carla, listen... Can we do this some other time? I mean, it’s kind of tough like
this on the phone. I’m in a coffee shop for pity’s sake.”
“All right then, when?”
“I don’t know. When I get down there, okay?”
There’s a pause, as if she’s not quite sure he means it. “Okay, fine...” she says
eventually. Then in a softer voice, “Congratulations on the project.”
“Thanks, you too.”
Adam hangs up, then continues blindly drinking his cream soda before he
realizes what he’s doing and switches to the Coke. He needs to get his mind back
into working order. Now that the job is finally off the ground, he can’t be
weighed down by all this extraneous baggage.
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6
“Hell is paved with priests’ skulls.” John Chrysostom
Evelyn Chadwick parks her modest vehicle in front of the Ministry but she’s
reluctant to open the door, as if to do so would represent some kind of definite
intent. This is the same car she drove back and forth to Princeton for so many
years, a kind of mobile cocoon between the two polarities, and she finds the
security of its confines reassuring.
Today marks the first time she’s been here since her father died. But more than
that, it was also the place he died and she knows that once she enters, she’ll feel
his specter immediately. It’s still hovering around back at home, so she doesn’t
even want to think how it might be here in this televangelist cathedral he built for
himself, this shrine to the insatiable human desire for checkbook salvation.
Hogging all the space by the portico is a wellused white truck with the words
“Olmstead Productions” stenciled on the side. Its back end is yawning open and
as she watches, she sees a young guy emerge, blond and sinewy, wearing a
frayed sweatshirt and baggy cargo pants. His heavy work boots stomp loudly as
he ferries silvered boxes down a metal ramp into the building but he’s not too
busy to stop and give her a toothy smile which both embarrasses and cheers her
at the same time. He’s no more than a kid and he’s obviously got no idea who she
is, but that’s the whole point; it’s the anonymity that makes it so flattering.
With that thought to sustain her, she enters the familiar edifice only to find
herself facetoface with her father’s oil portrait draped in black. What she’d like
to do is haul the damn thing down once and for all, but she restrains herself with
the mental rejoinder that it’s no longer necessary. He’s not here anymore. There’s
no need to be on her guard, no need to be constantly looking over her shoulder...
Ladies and gentlemen, Merle has left the building. He’s gone forever and she
tries to tell herself that she can afford to relax.
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“Hey Evelyn,” calls a voice from across the lobby.
She looks over past the reception counter and sees Adam Olmstead standing
there with another man, Hispanic features. She figures he’s about the same age as
Adam but his thick head of black hair makes him look younger. “Hi,” she replies
as she walks across to them.
“My partner, Raoul Lopez,” says Adam. “Raoul, say hello to our leading lady.”
“An honor,” says Raoul, offering his hand and twinkling his bright eyes at her. “I
feel like I know you already.”
The charm’s as thick as axle grease, thinks Evelyn, but at the same time it’s not
unwelcome. First the kid outside and now this smoothie in here; she could get
used to this.
“What I thought we’d do first,” says Adam, all business this morning, “is find
somewhere quiet so we can discuss what we’re about here. The guys are still
setting up so we’ve got, what, Raoul? An hour?”
Raoul considers the chunky chronometer that’s strapped to his wrist. “I would
think,” he replies, as another member of the crew, older and scruffier, enters from
the back corridor with a pair of wheels and begins to load up again. This one
doesn’t even glance at Evelyn, he just goes about his task stonefaced. “Whoa,
whoa, easy with that,” says Raoul as the guy upends a box. “It’s only the
goddamn camera.”
Evelyn is meanwhile beginning to feel Adam looking at her as if making an
assessment and she suddenly becomes selfconscious about the jeans and sweater
she’s wearing under her fall jacket. “I brought some other clothes,” she assures
him. “They’re in the trunk... I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
“Great, no problem,” he replies, like it’s the last thing on his mind. “Let’s go find
some coffee, okay? We’ll take care of that later. One thing at a time.”
She goes with him up to the executive floor and they find their way into one of
the smaller conference rooms where a tray of refreshments is already laid out: a
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big thermos, plus some small bottles of juice and a plate of sticky Danish. The
place is eerily quiet. “Where is everybody?” she asks him.
“You mean Ministry staff? There’s a skeleton crew in the control booth but that’s
about it. The rest are on vacation.”
“And Jesse?”
“I think he’s in Cincinnati with that headhunter of his. Between you and me, I
think they’re feeling the pressure.”
“I’m sure they are,” she says, but she sounds uninterested even to herself. She
isn’t the least bit concerned what happens to this place, so why should she even
pretend?
He begins to pour from the thermos and the slightly stale smell of typical office
coffee permeates the room. “No chocolate, I’m afraid.”
His comment softens the edge she seems to have developed by just being here.
It’s nice that he remembered her preference. He spends some time fussing
around with milk containers and stir sticks, then just sits back in his chair and
looks at her.
“How you feeling?” he says.
“Fine,” she replies. Then when he looks at her dubiously, she adds “No, really.”
What other answer can she give? That she’s worried her nerve will fail? That
she’s anxious not to disappoint him after he’s shown her so much trust?
“Jesse asked about you,” he’s telling her.
“He did? What did he say?”
“Not much. I think he just wanted to talk. I think he’s concerned about you.”
She finds that hard to believe. Normally Jesse’s only concern is what’s right for
Jesse. “What did you tell him?”
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“Not much,” he replies. “I hedged very skillfully.”
“Funny he should ask you though.”
“If you want my opinion, I think he actually cares about you in his own way.”
“Sure he does,” she says with a thick smear of sarcasm.
“Suit yourself, but that was my impression.”
“You think?”
“He told me you’ve got some wonderful qualities.”
“He actually said that? What kind of qualities?”
“We didn’t really get into too much detail.”
She’s a little annoyed with herself for asking. After all, why should she even care
what Jesse thinks? Or anyone else, for that matter. “You want to start now?” she
says.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.”
“All right, good. So the first thing to understand about today is that within the
context of the subject, you’ve got total freedom. I want to make that clear. I’ve
prepared a list of questions but you can answer them any way you want. The
only thing I’d ask is that you try to answer each question as honestly as you can.”
“Of course.”
“No, what I’m trying to say is... if you can, I’d like you to try and avoid anything
extraneous. Now I know that’s not easy, especially here.”
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“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“No, well, I’m probably not making this very clear.” He looks at her for longer
than necessary while he tries to make up his mind how to phrase it. “You’re a
scientist,” he says. “You don’t care much for religion, I appreciate that... or to be
more accurate, you don’t care much for your father’s brand of religious
moralizing, am I right? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“Fine, so with all due respect, what I’d like us to avoid is any undue feelings
you’ve got about that. Would that be possible?”
“Why, you think I’m going to go on a tirade?”
“I don’t know, are you? Look, Evelyn, I’m trying to be honest with you. I’m not
asking you to say anything you don’t want to say, okay? All I’d like is that you
answer the questions straight, without trying to score points.”
“Without what?”
“Sorry... I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
She remains silent for a few moments. So that’s what this little preparation is all
about, she thinks to herself. Now that he’s spelled it out, she can see the reason
for the kid gloves. He’s afraid she might use this whole session today as a
soapbox, an opportunity to skewer her father and all he stands for. But is it true,
she wonders? Is that what she’s planning to do? She doesn’t even know herself.
“What if I make a mistake?” she asks him. “What if I blurt out something I don’t
mean? I have been known to do that on occasion.” She sees him gives her a long,
slow smile. It’s as if he has some kind of builtin radar and can sense exactly
when she’s shifting from genuine anger to selfparody. Not too many others have
been able to figure that out.
“No problem,” he says to her. “Feel free to blurt. Anything you’re not happy
with, just let me know and we can retape it, all right? Nothing to it.”
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To Evelyn that sounds reasonable enough but then again, she has no way of
judging. It’s not like she’s exactly used to this. Her father might have reveled in it
but her own exposure to any kind of broadcast medium has basically been
limited to one brief interview on WPRB, the university’s inhouse radio station,
and the subject wasn’t quantum mechanics, it was about the stages of a date at
which permission should be asked. She was invited because she was the
youngest female member of staff and they presumed that such a position made
her some kind of relevant role model for the student body. How wrong could
they be? What on earth did she know about anything like that? Somehow she
faked her way through it but it wasn’t very convincing and after that she never
accepted any more such engagements. She even refused to speak in public unless
it conformed exactly to her own range of topics.
“Do I need makeup, anything like that?” she asks him.
“Only if you want to. We’re using a format known as highdefinition digital. It’s
flexible enough that we don’t need a major lighting package, so whether you
need makeup or not is really up to you, whatever’s comfortable.”
“And can I wear what I want too?”
“Within reason. Something in a light shade if you have it. Basically, the only
things we don’t like are small stripes or checks but that’s just because they tend
to strobe on camera. But sure, apart from that, wear anything you like.”
“I didn’t bring any stripes or checks.”
“Then we should be okay. Anything else?”
She hesitates. There are maybe a thousand things she’s not sure about, the first
and foremost being why she’s here at all but again she doesn’t say anything, she
just shakes her head.
“You’ll be all right,” he says. “Stop worrying so much.”
With some difficulty she manages a smile. “Is it that obvious?”
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When they’re done with coffee, Evelyn follows Adam down towards the main
studio and is surprised at how little action there is down there. In the back of her
mind she thought that productions were lavish affairs, the way you see movie
making portrayed in movies, but it’s not like that at all – at least not this
production. For a start, there are only five people within the huge space: the
blond kid she saw manhandling boxes; the scruffy one who’s now feeding cable
through the rows of pews; then there are two others who she hasn’t yet met, a
bulky man with what looks to be a digital camera on a tripod and next to him
some thin guy with earphones sitting on a box adjusting a tape machine. Finally
there’s Raoul off to one side, busy on his cellphone. “This is it?” she asks,
looking around.
Adam seems well used to the reaction. “What were you expecting? The Julia
Roberts treatment?”
“Might have been nice.”
They’re interrupted by Raoul who puts his phone away in his shirt pocket and
walks over purposefully, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the production manager
doing his job. He gives her a big smile of confidence but the person he really
needs is Adam and for a few minutes, they stand in deep discussion.
Evelyn uses the opportunity to stroll around, her mind transporting into a
netherworld of its own. It’s hard to avoid in this place and many of the
recollections she wanted to keep submerged are starting to float involuntarily to
the surface. Much of the studio set is still in darkness but even so, she can still see
that little has changed since she was last here: still the same fauxchurch scenery
and still the same damn pulpit with his initials on the front. If she half closes her
eyes, she can even see him standing there in his threepiece cashmere, with all
that smug folksiness just oozing out of him as the great reverential hush
descends and he opens up his leatherbound tome. “My friends, today we read from
the Gospel of Saint Merle...”
“Memories?”
It’s the voice of Raoul who’s standing just a couple of yards behind her. For the
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moment, Adam seems to have disappeared. “Too many,” she says.
“I take it you didn’t get on too well with your father.”
He says it outright like a definitive statement and she can only assume he
received the full rundown from Adam. But she’s tired of being diplomatic, of
making nice just to show respect. Her father’s gone, so why bother anymore?
“You could say that,” she replies.
“I know the feeling. It was the same with me. Trouble from the day I was born.
My mother told me the first time my dad picked me up, I kicked him in the face
and then peed on his shirt.” He laughs out loud at his own story. “I even stole his
car once, you know why? Because he said my girlfriend’s pants were too tight.
They were, but I figured he had no right to say it. We were like that, him and
me.”
“What did you do with it? The car, I mean?”
“Nothing much. I just drove it around for a time, then brought it back with the
hubcaps missing to teach him a lesson. He thought I sold them but I didn’t, I just
threw them into a field.” Raoul laughs yet again, like it’s something that comes
very easily to him.
“I never did anything like that,” she answers. Then almost to herself she adds:
“Maybe I should’ve.”
Raoul leaves her to go about his business and she’s about to sink back into her
reverie when she’s startled out of it by a few of the spotlights being flicked on
and off in quick succession. The bulky guy with the camera is speaking to
someone on a walkietalkie, giving instructions in a loud voice. It must be to
whoever’s up in the control booth. “Lemme see three,” he’s saying. “Okay, try
four. No, no, I said four... Okay, now give me the two together.”
“So, how we doing?” says Adam, coming up alongside her with a clipboard full
of printed notes. There appear to be all kinds of handwritten scratches in the
margin.
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“Raoul and I were comparing family histories,” she tells him.
“Is that right? Did he tell you about his sister?”
“No, his father.”
“You should get him to tell you about his sister, Martina. She’s something else.
Lives in Paris, sings salsa in a club, would you believe? Toast of the town, the new
Josephine Baker. Apparently she’s had raging affairs with everyone in her time...
including, I might add, a minister in the Chirac government.”
“Vive la France.”
“You can say that again.”
“I suppose you must speak French too, coming from Quebec and all.”
“Working knowledge. How about you? Any languages?”
“High school Spanish but that’s about it. I never really traveled very much,” she
says, a little wistfully. “Never seemed to find the time.”
“No? Well you’ve got the time now.”
That’s true she thinks, something else that never occurred to her. Suddenly she’s
got the time to do anything she wants, so why isn’t she doing it? It’s a good
question but if she stands here and thinks any more about herself, she knows
she’s going to get really depressed. “We ready yet?” she says.
“Just about. You want to go try on your wardrobe? We’ll be about another fifteen,
then we can see how you look on camera.”
Normally it wouldn’t take her anywhere near that long. For her, appearance is a
triviality, a social chore more than an aesthetic function and once she’s in the
changing room, she strips off her sweatshirt and jeans quickly enough but then
she stops, exposed and crowded with doubt, sidetracked by her own hesitations
and recurring mind games.
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For a long time, she stares at herself in the flat expanse of the mirror, impervious
to the humid air and the goose bumps that are forming on her bare limbs. In her
headspace, she’s back at home when she was twelve, the time her mother
brought her back that first bra from a long weekend in New York and Evelyn
couldn’t wait to rush to her room and try it on; but in her enthusiasm she left the
door ajar and she was in front of the mirror just like this when she suddenly
became aware of him in the doorway. He was just standing there, staring at her.
He didn’t do or say anything, yet she felt the anger building inside him, the
temper more intense with every second, and all she could do was blink at him
like the child she was, like a small animal caught in headlights. There was no
yelling, no violence, not on that occasion, and eventually he just left in silence,
but the incident scarred her nonetheless and now here she is again, irrational
though it may be, still affected by a twenty year old memory.
There’s a tap on the door and she shakes herself back to life. It’s the voice of
Raoul Lopez, gentle and polite. “Ms. Chadwick? Whenever you’re ready?”
“Yes, fine,” she calls back, “be right there.”
Stirred from her trance, she hurries to get herself dressed and when she emerges,
she’s wearing a dark skirt and a tailored blouse in a kind of eggshell color. On
her feet is a pair of low pumps almost the same shade as the skirt. “Is this all
right?” she says hesitantly to Adam. “Not exactly Paris, I know.” She’s trying
hard not to let her voice betray her insecurities.
“Are you kidding? That looks great.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Wait, we'll put you on camera, let Zach take a look. You met Zachary by the
way?”
At the sound of his name, the cameraman wiggles his fingers at her and she does
the same in return, feeling silly about doing it. “Where am I going to be?” she
says to Adam. “Don’t tell me the pulpit, I refuse.”
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“No, not the pulpit. What we thought was maybe sitting in one of the pews,
facing outwards, very casual. Zach wants to play around with the space, pull
wide, do some sweeps, that kind of thing. That sound all right to you?”
“Long as I don’t have to sing any hymns.”
He smiles. “Not today.” Then he escorts her over and there’s a lot of pause and
reflection as he figures out the right position for her. “Zach, how’s that? Good for
you?” When Zach offers a thumbsup, he turns back to Evelyn. “How you
feeling?”
“I think you asked me that already.”
“I know... but that was then, this is now.”
“I’ll be better once we get going.”
“Couple more minutes. I’ll be sitting a few rows back on the other side there.
That way, when you speak, you’ll be able to look directly at me and it’ll work out
just fine for the camera, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, but she’s a lot less confident than she was earlier.
Meanwhile the sound engineer, whose real name is Darryl but who everyone
calls Darth, is asking her to clip a tiny microphone to her collar and is suggesting
as delicately as he can that she may want to run the wire inside her blouse so it’s
not visible. While she fiddles with it, Adam takes up his position and scans
through his notes one last time. When he’s done, he looks up at her.
“Okay, Evelyn?” he says. “Need a glass of water or something? Coffee? Hot
chocolate?”
“They don’t have any,” she reminds him.
“How about a martini with an olive?”
She attempts a smile. “No, I’m fine, thanks,” she tells him but if she’s truthful
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with herself, she feels sick to her stomach, like she wants to throw up.
“Okay, so here we go,” he announces. “Quiet everyone, lots of quiet... And roll
sound.”
Darth sits with his headphones clamped over his ears and his tape machine on
his knees, as his dexterous fingers work the controls. “Speed,” he replies.
“Roll camera.”
“Rolling,” says Zach with his eyes fixed on the tiny screen; total concentration.
“Evelyn, you all set?” says Adam looking across at her. “Evelyn?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I can’t do this.” Then before he can interfere, she’s away,
her feet moving on their own, half walking, half running towards the door. It’s
like there’s a tidal wave of nausea threatening to overtake her, to engulf and
drown her if she doesn’t immediately get the hell out of this place.
• • •
She’s sitting in the car when he finds her, just sitting there in her own tiny
cocoon, gazing out straight ahead at nothing whatsoever. The white truck is still
parked in front of the entrance but her eyes are not focused and she hardly even
sees it. Seems like a long time ago that the blond kid smiled and made her feel
good about herself.
Adam tries the door on the passenger side. When he finds it locked, he taps the
window until, without too much thought, she leans over and unfastens the lock.
“Go ahead, laugh,” she tells him once he’s inside.
“Why would I laugh?”
She doesn’t reply, she just looks down at her smart new clothes as if seeing them
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for the first time and fingers her mother’s gold necklace. “I couldn’t breathe,” she
says eventually. “I just felt like...” She wants to say she felt like she was
suffocating but she can’t find the words. “I knew it wouldn’t work. Didn’t I tell
you?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“So why’d you ask me? Why’d you insist? I don’t understand.” She shakes her
head, not really expecting an answer. Even in this state, she knows perfectly well
that she was the one who volunteered, that she made the commitment “in good
faith” as he put it – except that now she wants to back out, to break the faith like
the perennial coward that she is.
“At least you didn’t leave,” he says to her.
She looks at him questioningly.
“You could have driven away but you didn’t. That’s something I suppose.”
She doesn’t reply because she doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t even know
why she didn’t drive away. Maybe it’s because it just didn’t occur to her; or maybe
it’s because the only place she has to drive to is that damned house. She once
thought of a joke, that “EC” really stands for “Escape Clause” but she doesn’t
repeat it here. It’s neither the time nor the place and he probably wouldn’t
understand anyway.
“Is it your father?” he’s asking her. “Is it the memories? What?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I just don’t know what it is. If I knew...” She just shakes
her head again. “I just ruined your day, didn’t I?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Beginning to look that way,” he says with
alarming honesty.
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” She doesn’t know what else to tell him. “Is it
serious?”
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“Not yet, no. But it will be if we have to cancel.”
She picks up on that immediately and turns to look at him. “You mean you want
me to go back in there?” She almost laughs. “What kind of masochist are you?
Haven’t I caused you enough problems?”
“The only problem is if we don’t finish the job we started.”
She can’t maintain eye contact any longer and she gazes out at the mist, so dank
and heavy it seems to cling to everything, an exact repeat of the day he arrived in
her kitchen. She doesn’t know what he expects from her and in some ways she
resents the intrusion into her life, the invasion of her space, when all she wants is
to remain inside this probability matrix she’s constructed for herself. It’s
comfortable in here. She can stay vague and contradictory and, best of all, she
doesn’t have to make any decisions. “I don’t know why you don’t just cut your
losses,” she mutters.
That’s when his patience seems to come to an end; but it doesn’t snap as much as
dissolve, melting away slowly and calmly. “I’ll tell you why,” he says, his voice
still lowkey. “Because if we don’t get this done, my losses can run to five figures
on the day, that’s why. You want the numbers, ask Raoul, he’ll give them to you.”
She’s a little stunned by his answer, its force enhanced by the power of
understatement, and she recognizes the return to his favored tactic of candor
when things aren’t going his way. It seems to work, too, because she’s now the
one on the defensive, she’s the one feeling bad about screwing things up. She has
no idea how production budgets work or who’s to blame if things go wrong. All
she knows is that by any definition, this one sits squarely across her narrow
shoulders, baring down on her like that damn Calvary cross, so now here she is
again, feeling guilty as sin and trying to run away from whatever it is she doesn’t
like.
“What if I vomit right on camera?” she asks him. It’s not a real question, more
like a peace offering, and just like earlier, he seems to sense the difference.
“Not to worry,” he replies easily, “we’ll just wipe off the lens and start again.”
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She manages a smile and reaches for the door handle. There’s no reason it’ll be
any easier the second time but she has to try or she’ll never be able to live with
herself.
• • •
Two days later, Adam is in Atlanta, sitting in one of the network’s executive
viewing rooms. Harriet Jo Meade is next to him and Carla is sitting opposite. In
front of them, the wall monitor displays a frozen image of Evelyn at the Ministry,
the partly edited interview almost at an end. She’s been caught on screen with
her elbow resting on the back of the pew while Harriet takes a phone call.
“So whaddya think?” he says to her once she’s back paying attention.
“Seems okay,” replies Harriet using her matteroffact voice.
“Okay? Just okay?”
“So what do you want me to say?”
“How about ‘Adam, you’re a genius’?” He’s fooling around, deliberately
hamming it up, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s immensely proud of the
footage, especially considering what he went through to get it.
“How about ‘Adam, you’re full of it’?”
“Carla? Anything you’d care to add? An insult or two? Don’t mind me.”
Carla smiles dutifully but her disposition prevents her from joining in. “It’s very
good,” she tells him, the restraint evident.
“Just very good? What is it with you people?”
“Can we get on with it?” says Harriet.
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Adam just shakes his head in mock frustration. He knows Harriet of old and this
scene has been replayed countless times in the past his cornball portrayal of the
rakish rogue opposite her wellworn rendition of the grumpy dowager. It’s like
they do it without thinking. He releases the pause button on the remote to play
the last part of the tape and from this point on, there’s a slow camera zoom while
Evelyn’s speaking, all the way in to a tight closeup...
“So in conclusion, what we have to remember is that when these famous
scientists talk about God, they use it as a kind of shorthand if you will, a word to
describe the natural laws of existence. As de Lamartine put it... ‘God is but a
word, invented to explain the world.’ Basically it’s an inherent belief that the
cosmos is not and could never have been just random chaos but is filled with
physical order and a vast, mathematical precision.
In fact, the British astrophysicist Fred Hoyle once estimated that the odds of life
arising by chance from the Big Bang would be about the same as a tornado
blowing through a junkyard and assembling in perfect order all the pieces of a
Boeing 747!
“Of course, not all the great scientists of history shared this view, certainly, but
for those who did, it became a way of rationalizing the inner motivation each of
them felt. As Einstein himself said... ‘The cosmic religious experience is the
strongest and the noblest driving force behind scientific research...’
So if I had to summarize, I’d say that the concept of faith according to science can
be explained very simply as why our universe is the way it is... and therefore, by
definition, why we ourselves are the way we are.”
At this point the tape cuts to other scenes but these are just silent takes of Evelyn
wandering around the Ministry: amongst the pews on the studio set, then in the
control booth and so on. They’re shot for editing purposes but Harriet can’t be
bothered with such niceties of production and she’s already on her feet.
“Okay, we’re all done?”
“We’re all done,” Adam replies. Carla gets up too, which means he’s the only one
still sitting in the same place. “And do we possibly have a final verdict?” He’s not
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expecting rave reviews because this is Harriet after all, but all nonsense aside, the
truth is that Evelyn really does seem to have a rare camera presence. Once she got
going, it was as if the crisis of confidence had never happened. Not only did she
not spew up all over the set but she was flawless in her delivery. For an amateur
with no previous experience, to talk with such fluidity and such an instinctive
sense of timing is remarkable in his experience.
“Can you package it?” Harriet is asking him.
It’s not exactly fulsome praise but it’s a real compliment nonetheless. What she
really means is that there’s such an abundance of material, it’s going to be tough
to make a selection. That’s how Adam decides to take it anyway and he replies
accordingly. “We've got what we need,” he says.
“Fine, so let’s see how it all comes together before we jump up and down.” It’s
her last comment before powering her way out into the brightness of the corridor
and suddenly she’s gone, leaving a massive vortex in her wake.
“Jump up and down?” he replies to the empty space. “Who, me?”
Meanwhile Carla remains by the door as if she can’t make up her mind whether
to stay or to follow her boss out. “I guess she likes it,” she says to Adam, but it’s
more to fill the gap than to offer a considered judgment.
“You think she wants to show it to anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Bryce or anyone?”
“I doubt she’d do that.”
“So I guess we just keep going.”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll confirm it but I think it’s a fairly safe bet.” She stands
there for a while longer as if still working out whether she should leave or not.
Then she appears to come to a major decision, closing the door with some
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deliberation and returning to her chair; but she doesn’t sit back in the seat, she
just perches on the edge as if she can’t afford the luxury of relaxing.
It doesn’t take much on Adam’s part to know what this is all about but he
chooses to wait for her to start.
“When are you planning to head out?” she finally asks him.
“There’s a flight at seven.”
“No, I’m talking about for the rest of the shoot.”
“Oh, that. Raoul’s still finalizing the schedule but it’ll have to be soon.”
“Know where you’ll be based yet?”
“Istanbul, probably. It’s about the most central place and not too pricey. We’ll fly
around from there.”
“Istanbul...” She repeats the name as if it’s magic, like something from the
“Arabian Nights” and that just by saying it she can somehow be transported there.
Then her gaze is caught by the images of Evelyn that are still running in silence.
“She’s very nice.”
Adam notes her choice of words: very good has now been replaced by very nice. He
thinks he knows what that means. “Look, Carla...”
“Let me go with you.”
“Go with me?”
“Let’s do it together. Why not?”
“You mean the shoot?”
“Sure, I’ll take some time off. Wherever you go, I’ll go. I won’t interfere, it’s not
like a client thing. It’ll just be me.”
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“Carla...”
“Don’t say no automatically.”
“I was going to ask what brought this on?”
“What brought this on? Adam, I don’t know if we’ve got a relationship or not...
On, off, on, off... It’s like a damn binary code. And it’s always like this, it never
changes, you know? I don’t know if we’ve got anything or whether we’re just...”
“Just what? Wasting our time?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
It’s a lie and he knows it. That’s exactly what she was going to say. “I don’t know
what to tell you, Carla. If it’s not enough for you...”
“Is it enough for you? Is it?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“You don’t know? That’s all you ever say, you don’t know. You never know.”
“You think I’m satisfied with the way it is?”
“Adam...”
“Is that what you think?”
“I just don’t want it to be like this.”
He looks at her, not sure whether he’s seeing the start of a tear glistening in her
eye. “I don’t want it to be like this either,” he says quietly.
“So what do you think?”
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“About what?”
“About me tagging along.”
He’s having difficulty answering. Everything’s wrong about this, even to where
it’s taking place: here at the network, in a viewing room. He had some hazy
notion when he flew down here that they might want to do something
spontaneous like they used to do: no plans, no agenda, just drive out someplace;
but suddenly here they are, with Carla jealous of Evelyn for absolutely no reason
and asking to come with him on the damn shoot. What’s he supposed to say? If
he says yes to her right now, he’ll never be able to rescind it.
The problem, when it all comes down to it, is that he really doesn’t want her to
come along. In fact, he’s really not certain if he should continue with any of this
at all. The whole thing is probably well past its due date anyway. What he needs
to find is some courage here.
“Carla, look, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”
Now there’s definitely an emotion, no mistaking it. She makes like she wants to
say something but can’t bring herself to do it, so she gets up. He gets up too but
by the time he’s on his feet, she’s already heading out the door and closing it
behind her.
After she’s gone, the room seems dead, their conversation having already
disappeared into the ether, and the only thing that remains is the symbolic after
scent of her cologne overlaying the fug of Harriet’s cigarette. He pushes the stop
button on the remote and then Evelyn too disappears, leaving him very much
alone with his thoughts. Slowly he walks over to the machine and ejects the disc.
• • •
For Evelyn herself, the day she spent at the Ministry was more than a test of
character, it was an ordeal; but it’s over and done with now and she finds herself
back wandering the scruffy lawns of the farmhouse, her ungainly yellow
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gumboots squelching their way across the untended acreage. The sun is out this
morning but there’s no warmth to it and she wears her jacket. One of the pockets
is fraying, she notices, but it’s of no account. It’s like nothing is important
anymore and she has a profound feeling that her life is in abeyance. Sure, the
session was a personal breakthrough of sorts but it turned out to be no more than
a sideshow in the great scheme of things and now here she is, back in the self
same zone of emptiness.
In the end she was pleased with what she managed to accomplish, yet she also
knows that she really has Adam to thank. He was the one who made it possible
and he’s the one who deserves a medal of honor just for putting up with her; but
then he vanished like a wraith straight afterwards and that’s why today, once
again, her only companion is Shroedinger, following along as she rambles her
way around. He doesn’t exactly walk to heel like a dog but in between his own
diverse meanderings, he makes sure she’s always in sight; and as if in gratitude
for this unfailing loyalty, she keeps up her usual running conversation with him.
If anyone were interested enough to observe her, she’d appear to be simply
talking to herself but she knows better. Her words are for the cat because the cat
understands everything.
“Hey, you know who I should call?” she says to him as he chews on a clump of
tall grass. “I should call Stephie. You remember Stephie? Sure you do. Married
that guy, what’shisname, Jake or something. And she’s into real estate now, did
I tell you that? I was thinking maybe I should call and see how much I could get
for this dump, what do you say? We could move away, go somewhere else.
Where’d you like to go live, huh? Don’t think you’d like the city too much,
cooped up all day in a tiny apartment. Okay, how about Nebraska? Lots of space
there. Or how about somewhere warm? Arizona, or maybe New Mexico, what do
you think? Or we could try Europe... Paris, like that Raoul guy’s sister. Hey, I
could be someone’s mistress, that might be neat. A kept woman.” She tries out a
sexy French accent, trying to sound like Catherine Deneuve... “Mon amour cheri...”
but it ends up sounding more like Miss Piggy. “Okay, so maybe not Paris,” she
says, and her thoughts start to wander around all the places she’s ever imagined
but to which she’s never been all the sun drenched cafés she never visited and
all the sophisticated conversations she never had. And when she returns from her
travels, it’s back to her friend Stephie, not as she is now in her Plattsburgh real
estate office but as she was back then, back when they were both in the basketball
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squad talking about guys in the locker room. In those days, she recalls, Stephie
was a boymagnet, svelte and flirtatious, while she herself was exactly the
opposite: spindly and studious and detached from almost everything around her.
“What a joke,” she says to the cat. “What a mismatch. Me, talking with Stephie.
What the hell did I know?”
She smiles to herself at the recollection but then another memory enters her head,
this one more specific, and she stops smiling because this time it involved her
mother too. “Did I ever tell you about the day I went to Stephie’s house after the
game and forgot to phone? No? I never told you about that?” She’s remembering
back to a time when she was thirteen. When she came home, it was late and her
father was furious before she even had the chance to explain. “He never liked
Stephie,” she says to the cat. “He thought she was a bad influence. He thought
she was ‘copulating’ already, can you believe that? That was the word he used.”
Her memories of that particular evening are sporadic and in no special sequence
but her mood sours as she thinks back to the ugliness. There’s her mother silently
fretting and her father stomping about like the tyrants of old with his belt already
in his hand: the “Bible belt,” as people used to call it back then but it wasn’t much
of a joke, not to Evelyn. His face was dark and there was a lot of arguing in the
hallway until she managed to duck behind her mother and find refuge in the
kitchen until she finally thought she was safe. Then she crept upstairs to her
room and hoped that would be the end of it. Eventually the door opened but it
wasn’t her father, it was her mother, pale and shaking. She didn’t speak, she just
came over and sat on the edge of the bed in complete silence. For an hour or
more she just sat there as if she were paralyzed, looking at nothing but the hands
in her lap. It was difficult to tell what had happened and even today, the
questions remain. Did he just yell at her or did he do more? Did he actually use
that belt on his wife or was it just the fear in her eyes? Does it even matter? Is the
physical violence of battering any worse than the psychological terror? Who can
ever know except the victim? And multiplying the damage was the continual
guilt that Evelyn felt while she was growing up. In her own mind, so much of it
was her own fault for not being perfect. It was partly why she crept around and
hid herself in corners, her nose always buried in her books. She thought that if
she could just keep out of trouble, her father might stay calm and her mother
would remain safe.
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“You know what I think?” she says now to the cat. “I think he killed her. She
didn’t die from an aneurism at all, it was homicide caused by fear and I think
they should make it a capital crime. They should call it ‘traumacide.’ You like
that? Traumacide? I just made that up. And they should treat it like ‘murder one,’
put the bastards to sleep like they do at the vet, whaddya say?”
She finds her way into the old barn where her father’s bronze Cadillac is still
parked. After he died, one of Jesse’s guys drove it home and this is where it’s
been until now, untouched, like most of his things. “What the hell am I going to
do?” she asks Shroedinger as he wanders up next to her. She lifts herself onto the
car’s enormous hood and just sits there with her muddy heels making marks on
the bodywork. “Hey, I know one thing I could do. What if I just set a match to it
all? Whaddya think? Wanna help me out, be my accomplice, huh? All we have to
do is take that drum of kerosene in the back there, set a match to it and burn all
those creepy little demons to a cinder, how about that?” Then, tiring of the game,
she jumps off the car without warning and strides from the barn, the cat
following on close behind, his pupils reduced to vertical slits in the brightness of
the sun.
“Why didn’t she just leave?” Evelyn says to him, referring back to her mother. She
never has any doubt that the animal can keep up with her conversation. “Why
didn’t she just get out and take me with her? What could have been so hard?
People do it every day. What could he have done? Come after her? I don’t think
so. He had a reputation to keep up, he had an image to maintain. There was no
way he’d have come after her, so why didn’t she just go? That’s what I don’t
understand.” She runs her fingers through her short hair and looks over to where
the cat is sniffing around some weeds in the overgrown flowerbed. “And that
bastard, Jesse, he knew what was going on. He had to, don’t you think? Adam
said Jesse’s concerned about me but that’s only because I now own forty percent
of his damn business... But before? No goddamn way. Just turned a blind eye to
the whole thing, like it never happened.”
She arrives at the side door of the house where a few gardening implements have
been left to rust in the prewinter humidity. She doesn’t care much and she
moves right past them as always. There are some leaks in the guttering too where
the rainwater spills through, and the furnace could also use an overhaul, but
home maintenance is very low on her list of priorities right about now. There
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used to be a parttime oddjob man who came around every couple of weeks,
nice old guy, used to take his orders from Mrs. Dimitri, but Evelyn hasn’t seen
him for some time and she can’t be bothered searching for his number. It would
take too much effort.
Once inside the kitchen, she takes a perch on one of the counter stools and looks
again at the Times she left lying there. On the front page of the features section,
the lead article is entitled “Passing on the Torch” and it’s all about the old
generation of evangelists, either retiring or dying off. Sure enough, the main
photo is that of her father, standing at his pulpit with that big, cheesy smile on
his face. Other images portray a robust Billy Graham shaking hands with Ronald
Reagan; Jimmy Swaggart strutting typically across the stage with his sleeves
rolled up and his tie loose; Pat Robertson shown on Capitol Hill, the onetime
poster boy of the social conservatives; and beneath them, the dapper Jim Bakker
in his heyday with the heavily madeup Tammy Faye by his side, the two of them
surrounded by the press corps.
“You ever seen such a scary bunch?” she says to the cat. “Sure, I know, you’re
right. I should lighten up and get a life. So what else is new?”
She pushes the paper away but in doing so, she accidentally knocks a sugar bowl
off the counter. The cat is startled by the crashing noise and runs from the room
but Evelyn just sits there, staring down at the mess on the floor. This is the same
kitchen, the same place she hid the evening she came home from Stephie’s.
“What the hell am I going to do?” she says again, but this time not even the cat is
there to hear it.
7
“The orgasm has replaced the cross as the focus of longing.”
Malcolm Muggeridge
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“Is this great or what?” Adam leans his elbow on the reception desk and gazes
around at the timeworn lobby of the Hotel Pera Palas in the central Beyoglu
district of Istanbul.
Next to him, Raoul is already busy with checkin procedures but he interrupts
the paperwork to glance at the preserved authenticity and he has to acknowledge
that, in this one respect at least, Adam’s promise has held up. “Does the
plumbing work?” he asks. On his own, he’d have no doubt chosen the Inter
Continental.
Adam decides to ignore him. He has a weakness for these storied places and has
sought out many of them during his years of travel: the Peace Hotel in Shanghai,
the Colony in Jerusalem, the Taj in Mumbai; in fact anywhere with a modicum of
intrigue, anywhere that’s not mindlessly bland. “See that crack up there in the
marble?” he says to Raoul, pointing to a spot on the wall. “That’s from a bomb
blast in 1941. Back then, the place was like spy central. All kinds of people coming
and going... generals, emissaries, agents, arms dealers... and everyone watching
everyone else. You know Cicero stayed here?”
“Who’s Cicero?”
Adam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It was a huge scandal, maybe the most
famous espionage case ever. There were books, movies...”
“Never heard of him.”
“How about Mata Hari?”
Raoul is busy with his oversized wallet, stuffed with credit cards, receipts,
permits and wads of cash in several currencies. “Mata Hari? Sure, him I heard
of.”
“Her,” Adam says with disgust. “Mata Hari was a her. Exchanged favors for
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secrets and that was in 1915 yet. The original honey trap. Didn’t you read all
those stories as a kid?”
“No.”
“They say she used to stay here. They all did. Philby too, apparently.” He sees the
same blank expression. “The Brit who spied for the KGB? No? You have no soul,
Raoul.”
“I know, I think somebody stole it. Where I grew up they’d take anything, it
wasn’t nailed down.”
They finish up at the counter but Adam refuses to let Raoul go to his room until
he’s at least taken a peek around. Just inside from the lobby is the great domed
hall, still in the musty Ottoman style with its tiered balconies and chandeliers.
Here, countless sultans, princes, potentates and other assorted dignitaries have
been welcomed, toasted and feted; and perhaps the most distinguished, certainly
from a local pointofview, was Mustafa Kemal, the man they revere as “Ataturk,”
founding father of the modern state of Turkey. As the story goes, he actually had
the nerve to remonstrate with senior members of the occupying British High
Command while sipping his coffee in this very room. Adam relates all this and
more to his partner as they stroll like pashas themselves past the faded glory
towards the bar.
It’s midafternoon, too early for beer, so Adam orders up a large pot of the
ubiquitous tea they grow here, dark and very fragrant. They also serve a local
apple tea, Adam explains, but that’s just for tourists.
As always, Raoul makes a show of suffering from information overload but
underneath he doesn’t deny Adam these small pleasures. He knows, as every
experienced producer knows, that it’s this kind of childlike interest that keeps his
man fresh, that keeps the ideas coming. Besides, tomorrow they’ ll be busy
enough. In the morning the crew arrives with all their gear and in the afternoon
they have an appointment at the exquisite mosque of Sultanahmet with the
resident Imam.
In fact, that’s the real purpose of this trip to tape the various clergy as outlined
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in the approved scenario. Of course, Adam could find all the people he needs
without even venturing out of North America but he’s looking for the
environment too, the background location that gives the production an aura of
worldliness; and it all begins right here by the Bosphorous, the narrow straits
which divide Europe and Asia. It was here that the Ottoman dynasties ruled for
almost a millennium and here where an enlightened Islam became a major
benefactor of science.
• • •
It’s after dinner that Adam receives the visitor.
He leaves Raoul making some calls in the bar and takes the ancient wooden
elevator up to his room on the third floor, more than ready for an early night.
These days he tries to be a lot kinder to his body than he used to be.
When he opens the door, however, he finds the table lamp already on and he just
stands there rigidly as he realizes who’s sitting in the armchair. She looks up and
gives him a broad smile but she doesn’t move. She remains in the chair with a
thick paperback in her lap, her feet up on the bed and, as far as Adam can make
out, wearing nothing but a thin cotton bathrobe.
“Nice to see you too,” she says, even though he hasn’t said anything yet.
“How’d you get in?”
“I just walked in. Maid service was here, so I guess they assumed I was your wife.
Interesting hotel, by the way.”
“Glad you like it.” He stands there for a long time just staring at her. He might
have expected a stunt like this from Carla, it’s exactly what she might do... but
Evelyn?
She carefully folds down the page she’s on before closing the book. “If I were
you, I’d throw me out,” she says.
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“I’m thinking about it.”
“Are you really?”
He doesn’t know what to say or do and he just shakes his head at the situation.
It’s been a fairly good day up to now. “How’d you find me?” he says quietly.
“Why? Your number’s not listed in Toronto? Your company doesn’t know where
you are?”
“I suppose.”
“So you going to come in or stand by the door all night?”
He stares at her for another few seconds and then turns towards the bathroom,
not because he really needs to use it but because he has to find a moment to
adjust, a space and time to himself so he can run this thing all the way through.
First, he washes his face with cold water. It feels good but when he’s done with
that, he remembers she’s still there and he’s still got the problem. If he’s honest
with himself, he’s not unhappy to see her yet at the same time, he’s only too
aware that this is exactly the kind of situation that got him into trouble last time:
a trip across the Atlantic, a woman from back home, a frenzied session on a hotel
bed. It’s like replaying the tape; or worse, like one of those time loops the starship
always gets caught up in, destined to go through the same events over and over
again.
When he emerges from the bathroom, she’s already between the sheets and the
robe she was wearing has been thrown carelessly across the chair. “Evelyn, I’m
not sure...” He doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence.
“What? What are you not sure about? It all seems fairly straightforward to me.”
He takes a breath. “I’m not sure what you expect.”
“That’s easy. I don’t expect anything.”
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He glances down at her bare shoulders. “Well, obviously, that’s not true.”
“All right, one point to you. Let me rephrase that. I don’t expect anything beyond
instant gratification, okay? There’s nothing else to it.”
“Nothing?”
“Guide’s honor,” she says to him. Then when she sees that he’s still just standing
there, she gives out with a long sigh. “All right, fine, you’ve said all the right
things and your honor’s intact. Of course, mine’s down the tubes but yours is still
okay, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem is what it means.”
“No, the problem is you don’t believe me when I tell you it doesn’t mean
anything.”
“No, I don’t,” he replies, his thoughts full of the relationship he’s still trying to
scuttle. Now along comes fate with its charming little joke, having all this fun at
his expense. Instead of Carla, he’s now got Evelyn; instead of the highly stressed,
he’s got the highlystrung.
She gazes at him for a while. “I think,” she says, “just about the worst insult you
can give me is not to refuse, but to confuse me with other women you’ve known.”
It’s a highly perceptive comment and the force of it stuns him into retreat. But
he’s still not sure what to do. “I could say the same about you,” he says quietly.
“How do you mean?”
“Is this what you really want or are you only doing it because you think it’s what
guys really want?”
“This is sex, Adam, not philosophy. It’s what good folk do when they’re not
singing praises or raising barns.”
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He could reply but he doesn’t. He just feels her watching him as, despite himself,
he slowly begins to get undressed.
Even after they’re lying together, bodies gently touching, he’s still hesitant. It’s
not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that he can’t believe it’s all going to be as free
and guiltless as she proclaims. In response, she takes the lead, pulling him in
closer towards her and they begin to move on each other, gently at first but with
increasing impatience. It doesn’t take long before the caution and the
conversation are cast aside and she’s guiding him with singleminded
determination inside her. This is not exactly what Adam was expecting. Here
there’s little foreplay or sweettalk and nor are there any precautions. It’s wrong
and it’s not what intelligent people are supposed to do; but she’s more than
ready to take him and she gives out a low sound as he penetrates easily and
deeply.
“What did you do with Shroedinger?” he says to her.
“Left him with my friend Stephie,” she replies. “Any other dumb questions you
want to ask?”
Now that they’ve been interrupted, she uses the opportunity to maneuver him
over so that she’s above him, looking down. He’s about to say something but this
is no sensual interlude the way it was with Carla. This is role reversal in the
extreme and she puts her fingers over his lips to shut him up. Then she slides
down over him and restarts much more vigorously now that she’s in charge,
moving at her own pace, holding on to his hair, her small breasts bobbing in front
of his eyes. He feels her selfishness and realizes that she’s not even with him at
this moment; she’s alone, just using him, and there’s no way for him to even
guess what’s driving this. Whatever the cause, the result is a relentless
acceleration, a grasping, tightening, dispassionate intensity that culminates in a
totally selfinflicted and selfabsorbed explosion on her part. The release is
conveniently mutual but it’s so much more for her that she collapses down on top
of him, eyes closed and body limp, and within a few seconds she’s fallen into a
deep sleep.
• • •
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The morning is not filled with sunlight like it was in Cannes. It’s sullen and
disenchanted and it finds Adam taking an early breakfast with Raoul in the
hotel’s stately but slightly shabby dining room, trying to keep his voice low as he
attempts to explain the situation. Some things, however, just can’t be explained
and the words he offers are simply not sufficient.
“She wants to come with us to Burma,” he says over his roll and marmalade.
Raoul puts down his coffee cup. “She what?”
Adam can’t bring himself to repeat it. He refused Carla’s request to tag along, yet
now here’s Evelyn wanting to do exactly the same thing. The only difference
seems to be that Carla wanted the liaison to continue and Evelyn doesn’t appear
to care one way or the other; at least that’s what she claims. “She wants to learn
about Buddhism,” he says.
“Buddhism? What the hell’s that all about? She hates religion.”
“Buddhism’s not a religion, it’s a way of being.”
“You know what I mean.”
“She says she needs to find equilibrium. That was the word she used...
equilibrium.”
“Well, she needs to find something, that’s for damn sure. Anyway, whatever it is,
she can’t come with us. It’s impossible, completely impossible.”
“If you say so.”
“It took forever to get the visas.”
“I told her that. She says she’ll go in as a tourist. She says she’s got the tickets and
she knows where we’re staying, so if we don’t take her, she’ll just show up
anyway.”
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“Gimme a break.”
“She says she’ll be our groupie.”
Raoul can’t help laughing but mostly it’s in sheer frustration. “What do you want
me to say, Adam? That I’m over the moon? That I’m jumping with joy at this turn
of events? Just tell me one thing. Are you and she...”
“Are we what?”
“I don’t know... An item, an attachment... You know what I’m talking about.”
It’s true, Adam knows perfectly well what Raoul’s talking about but he’s being
deliberately awkward because he’s just not sure how to answer. “She says no, or
at least, not necessarily.”
“And you? What do you say?”
“I say I’d like to prevent it.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Oh great, that’s just great. You’re working on it. Why am I not reassured? And
this ‘whateveritis’ you’re trying to prevent... Is it in addition to Carla or instead
of?”
That hurts and it makes Adam feel like a piece of garbage. He knows he deserves
it but he also knows that this wasn’t meant to be. He didn’t plan it, he didn’t
foresee it and there was no way he could have anticipated it. Of course, what he
should have done was walk out of the room immediately. No one has to tell him
that. He should have just turned around and walked out but he didn’t. She was
lonely and hungry and she needed to be with someone, it was as basic as that.
Yet even so, he should have still just turned around and walked out.
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“Should I tell you I’m sorry?” he says to Raoul. “Will that help? It happened. You
prefer that I didn’t mention it?”
A party of Germanspeakers enters the dining room and they take some time to
arrange themselves at a large round table near the window. They seem
prosperous and liberal, the type who take adventurous holidays and stay in
atmospheric places like this, but Raoul hardly looks at them. His head is much
too full right now. Once they’re settled, he says: “You didn’t answer my question
about Carla.”
“Carla? Who’s Carla?”
“Don’t be a wiseass. Is it over or not?”
“It is as far as I’m concerned.”
“And what about her? Is it mutual?”
“This is stupid.”
“Is it mutual?” repeats Raoul.
“Is what mutual?”
“Christ, what am I, talking to myself? Is it mutual between you and Carla that it’s
over?”
“Yeah... Well, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“Yes,” says Adam more deliberately, “I believe it’s mutual that it’s over. Both of us
together. Two minds as one.”
Raoul ignores the sarcasm. “No danger of a comeback?”
“No... I don’t know. What I mean is, who ever knows?”
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Raoul runs a hand through that thick hair of his. “All right, all right,” he says
eventually. “If Evelyn wants to go to Burma, fine, there’s not much we can do
about it, but on one condition. You lock up your zipper right now and you’re in
separate rooms the rest of the way. And I’m telling you this as a friend. She’s
trouble and you can’t afford it. What am I saying? We can neither of us afford it.
We’re supposed to be running a business here and I don’t want you messing it
up, all right? You and that dick of yours.”
Adam just listens and says nothing, trying to keep his eyes focused on his
breakfast. Unfortunately he’s having trouble with a container of strawberry
yogurt. He picks at the foil lid but it refuses to come unstuck. Meanwhile, Raoul’s
not done yet.
“And you need to tell this woman the way it is,” he’s saying, “right now, this
morning, before we do anything else, comprendo?”
“I guess.”
“God help me, now I’m starting to sound like my old man. Sometimes you scare
me, Adam, you know that? You’re a hell of a filmmaker but sometimes you scare
the shit out of me.”
• • •
Evelyn steps out into the drizzle with Adam, her arm linked in his but only so
she can share the umbrella he borrowed from the hotel. She’s never been to
Turkey before, never been to this part of the world at all, and she somehow had
the notion that the weather would be better. “Just like home,” she comments as
she tries to avoid a small puddle that’s already beginning to form.
They amble up a side street to the Istiklal Caddesi, where the narrow streetcars
still rumble their way along central tracks towards the terminus at Tünel. On
either side of them is the grand but delapidated architecture of what was once
the city’s upscale core. At that time, this area was a maelstrom of embassy
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activity with ambassadors from the great monarchies of Europe, all paying their
homage to the sultanate: from Czar Nicholas, Kaiser Wilhelm, Emperor Franz
Joseph, Queen Victoria and the rest. Today, there are few signs of the previous
splendor, just some crumbling facades and wrought iron gates, but they're mostly
hidden by a thick veneer of everyday commercialism, with discount stores,
cinemas and restaurants of varying quality.
Adam is quick to assure Evelyn that this is not the real essence of Istanbul and
that she should make it her business while she’s here to go see some of the sights:
the grand mosques, of course, as well as the classic palaces like the Topkapi and
the Dolmabahce which have been transformed into museums. He also suggests
she may want to take in the bazaar, an ancient market enclave covering several
blocks where she can bargain for carpets or copperware or gemstones, or
anything else that appeals to her. He’s like a tour guide giving her the rundown
but it’s also very evident that he clearly expects her to do all this on her own.
Sure, he’s busy with his filming and she appreciates that. He’s got a job to do.
However there’s definitely more to it than just work and she waits in vain for him
to get to the point.
Eventually, she has no choice to bring up the subject herself. “So what did Raoul
have to say?” she asks him, but he’s busy looking in one of the storefront
windows. They have a whole range of digital cameras on display and he’s totally
absorbed, trying to convert the currency in his head.
“Adam?” she says.
With some effort, he turns away from the merchandise. “Yeah, well... He was,
shall we say, not indifferent to the situation.”
“You mean he was mad as hell?”
“You might say that. But that’s okay, he’s just being professional. I’d be the same
in his place. The point is, what do we want to do about it?”
She considers that as they walk on. A woman passes by, pushing a stroller that’s
half wrapped in green plastic against the rain. From deep inside, a toddler’s face
peeps out. Yet despite the weather and the undoubted strains of child rearing, the
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woman looks serene, as if she’s at peace with herself, and Evelyn watches her a
little enviously.
“Don’t know about you,” she says quietly, “but I just want to go to Burma.”
“Nothing else?” he asks.
She’s not sure what he’s expecting her to say. She’s made it more than clear how
she feels... unless he himself is interested in taking this further. It’s hard to tell.
The sex was good, at least for her, but anything more at this stage could just lead
to endless complications, she knows that. Eventually, she replies by simply
lobbing it back to him. “How about you?” she says.
By this time they’re passing by the narrow entry to St. Padua, Istanbul’s largest
Catholic church. Christianity’s presence in this region dates back to when the
Roman emperor, Constantine, converted the city and changed its name from
Byzantium to Constantinople; but his regime only lasted a relatively short time
before it was replaced once again by Islam. Despite the fascinating history,
however, they don’t stop in at the church or even give it more than a cursory
glance. They’re far too wrapped up in their own entanglements.
“I don’t know either,” he says finally, in answer to her question. “I’m just trying
to extricate myself from something else.”
She nods, pretending to be worldly. “You don’t mind then?” she asks him.
“Mind?”
“About last night?”
“Why should I mind? Nobody twisted my arm.”
“I know, but still... I don’t want you to feel...” She comes to a stop, the words
escaping her.
“You don’t want me to feel what? Annoyed? Ashamed? Awkward? I’m running
out of A’s... shall I start on the B’s?”
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She gives him a smile. “Obliged,” she says pointedly. “I don’t want you to feel
obliged.”
“Oh, that.”
“You don’t, do you?”
He looks at her as if he’s about had it. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. All this...
this selfanalysis stuff. I’ve been around the globe a dozen times so if you’re
trying to tell me it was nothing but a onenight stand, then why don’t you just tell
me and have done with it?”
“It was nothing but a onenight stand.”
“Thank the Christ for that. I thought we’d never get there.”
There’s not much else to say and they walk on with her still holding on to his
umbrella arm. There aren’t too many people crowding the streets today and they
can just about make out the open space of Taksim Square in the far distance.
There looks to be a tall water fountain gushing sporadically but it’s hard to make
out in the rain. Before they reach there, however, he insists on a diversion and
leads her off through a glassedin arcade to a small, smoky restaurant, tightly
packed.
As they sit down at the wooden table, he whispers across to her that real sin
actually has nothing to do with sex: real sin is to come to this part of the world
without trying the hummus.
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8
“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.” Robert Louis Stevenson
In the shadowy depths of the predawn, a column of shavenheaded monks pace
their way barefoot along the residential back alleys of Yangon, capital of the
pariah state of Burma, also known as Myanmar.
Despite the temperate cool of winter, each monk or bhikku wears nothing but a
dark saffron robe and each carries his own precious wooden rice bowl. This
simple accoutrement, plus a razor, a sewing needle and a food strainer, amount
to the entire possessions that he’s allowed to retain when he gives up his home
and family for the celibate rigors of monastic life.
As they do every morning at this hour, the monks knock at every door along an
assigned route, silently requesting a spoonful of the rice and vegetables that must
provide for their daily needs. They’ll only eat twice, once when they get back and
once just before noon. It’s enough to keep body and soul together but little more.
Yet neither they nor the people they rejoin for their food see this ritual activity as
begging. Instead, they call it “pindapata” and it’s regarded as an honor for the
community to provide such sustenance, just as it’s a matter of social pride for a
son to join the order.
Walking in the middle of the steady line is Kondanna, whose title of Ashin means
he’s progressed beyond the level of junior but hasn’t yet gained enough
experience to be considered a sage. Now a teacher of dhamma, he’s been a monk
for almost half his life and he cannot imagine any other existence. For the reward
of spending every day in study and meditation with only minimal attention to
his physical needs, he’s had to sacrifice even the rudimentary pleasures of life.
This means no music or entertainment, no food beyond subsistence and, of
course, no sexual relationships. It’s not easy and he regards himself as far from
perfect, a long way from the nibbana that is his spirit’s ultimate aim. Yet he’s
become known as a noteworthy scholar because, out of a hundred thousand
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monks in this land of fifty million, he’s one of the very few who has taught
himself languages. As well as his native Burman, he’s fluent in both Thai and
Pali, and he’s also managed to pick up a remarkably good working knowledge of
English. It’s a unique talent he’s been given and he’s encouraged by the Order to
make use of it. Today, for example, he’s been asked to meet with a group of
foreigners. His instructions are to make their acquaintance, acclimatize them and
at the appropriate time, escort them back to the monastery. It’s a major
responsibility and he needs to prepare mentally for the task.
There’s generally no traffic on the street at this time of the morning but as the
monks arrive at an intersection, they hear the rumble of heavy engines and the
grinding of gears. Like the rest of them, Kondanna glances at the army convoy,
seeing it without really seeing it, and the troops in the back of each truck return
the gaze in their boredom.
They seem worlds apart, the two groups, but it’s likely that most of the soldiers
have gone through the shinpyu themselves, the threemonth training as a novice
monk that takes place between the ages of nine and twelve. It may give them an
innate understanding of the monks, perhaps even a certain empathy, but it’s no
more than that because in a military dictatorship, there’s little room for
maneuver. All decisions regarding any aspect of life originate with decrees from
the Orwelliansounding “State Law and Order Restoration Council,” a military
committee under the hardline general who calls himself “First Secretary.” There
were free elections at one point and there’s talk of more once the constitution has
been reestablished, but despite promises on a regular basis, the junta remains
firmly in power and doesn’t look like giving up soon. In the meantime, the
omnipresent threat of arrest, torture and execution infests the country like an
untreatable disease. And while the steadfast monks are tolerated, they can bring
little comfort to a tremulous population. The Buddhism they teach is a sedate
and silent form of pacifism which is, at best, a way of maintaining inner strength;
but dignified though it may be, it’s of no practical use against a rifle stock in the
ribs or a steeltipped boot in the side of the head. Nor can it prevent the
disappearance of a relative, nor the scream of pain from an electric shock.
And so on this ordinary morning, Kondanna waits like the others for the vehicles
to pass before attempting to cross the asphalt; and even within the context of this
simple random encounter, it reveals how the two sides manage to maintain their
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simple philosophy of coexistence. The monks stand patiently as the military
takes precedence and life goes on.
• • •
Across the city, Evelyn Chadwick has already calculated that one night at the
impeccable Strand Hotel where she and the crew are staying adds up to the same
amount as the country’s annual per capita income. It’s a somewhat shocking
discovery and although she hasn’t traveled very much, this is still more than
enough to provide a strong dose of her familiar guilt.
Architecturally, the building appears as a white wedding cake of a structure
rising out of the generally squalid central area in front of the Hieden Street jetty.
Back when the city was still known as Rangoon, this location opposite the harbor
represented prime real estate and as soon as the hotel was established, it became
one of the social centers of British colonial life. Originally founded by the Sarkies
Brothers, the same early developers who built Raffles in Singapore, it fell into
serious decline in the postwar era until an optimistic foreign consortium poured
many millions into refurbishing. Indeed, the room in which she’s staying has
been exquisitely restored to its old majesty with pale walls, dark mahogany floors
and twelvefoot ceilings, as well as the superfluous luxury of both a ceiling fan
and central air conditioning. Earlier, when the young butler delivered her
breakfast, he was as polished as if he’d been to a European finishing school and it
made her think for just a few minutes what it must take to organize such an
upscale enterprise in this isolated nation. In a city of frequent brownouts, even a
consistent supply of power has to be an exercise in daily frustration.
As Evelyn descends the broad staircase to the lobby, she can see why Adam
would want to stay here. Although it’s not as totally authentic as the Pera Palas,
there’s a certain nostalgic empire spirit seeping from every cornice and even
today, the likes of Rudyard Kipling and Somerset Maugham would no doubt feel
right at home.
She offers a nodding hello to the pleasant young woman at the concierge desk
and then exits the front door to the covered colonnade where she finds Raoul,
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Zach and Darth chatting with a smartly suited young Burmese next to the
minivan they rented. She figures he must be either the local production
coordinator or the governmentassigned guide; or more likely, in this tightly
controlled country, he’s both.
“Hi there,” she says to Raoul. “Did Adam come down yet?”
Raoul glances at his watch. “Not yet.”
It’s obviously who they’re waiting for and she can easily see how Raoul Lopez
might spend an inordinate amount of time hanging around like this. Adam’s
professional enough when he’s on the job but she witnessed enough on the
journey down here to know that he does tend to indulge his own inner spirit, not
to mention his body clock, and often has to be kept firmly in line otherwise he
can sleep late or saunter off towards whatever sight or storefront happens to
capture his interest.
Also standing there on the opposite side, partly hidden by the vehicle, is a bhikku
in a robe of bright saffron, the first monk that Evelyn’s seen since she arrived. She
didn't even notice him at first. He’s lean in stature and stoic in his stance and he
gazes back at her with a placid face. He looks to be a couple of years younger
than she is. “Is he one of us?” she whispers to Raoul. She’s taken to including
herself in the group even though she knows very well that she’s considered an
outsider, like an uninvited guest who’s crashed the party. It doesn’t bother her
much. She was also a misfit back at Princeton and she learned to live with it.
“His name’s Kondanna,” replies Raoul.
“Does he speak English?”
“Yes, very well.”
With that piece of information, she makes an instant decision to go over and
introduce herself. “Excuse me,” she says. “Kondanna? My name’s Evelyn.” She
resists shaking his hand because she doesn’t know what the cultural protocol
might be but when he extends his own, she accepts it with a warm smile, happy
to have made this first contact.
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“I am very pleased to meet you,” he says a little haltingly, as if he’s not sure why
this strange woman would be talking to him at all.
“Likewise,” she replies, but immediately appreciates that she’ll have to keep such
speech idioms to a minimum. “I’m pleased to meet you too,” she adds belatedly.
“Should I call you Ashin?” she asks him, and she sees him react with both
surprise and pleasure that she knows his official title. It’s something she learned
from the comprehensive guide to Buddhism she’s been reading, the same thick
paperback she had in Istanbul, and she’s been absorbing its chapters with her
usual alacrity.
“Yes,” he says in answer to her question. “I am Ashin Kondanna of the Salin
Kyaungtaik. That is my monastery. Do you know Buddhism?”
“No, not really... Well, a little, I’ve been reading about it but I’d like to learn a lot
more.”
The young monk looks at her intensely. His eyes seem full of introspection but
without any sense of judgment, as if they just accept whatever visual signals the
optic nerves receive without attempting to interpret. “To learn is important,” he
says simply.
“Do you teach?” she asks him. She knows that a bhikku who’s reached the level of
Ashin often has such responsibilities.
“I am Sasanadhaya Dhammacariya, which means a teacher who teaches dhamma.”
“Is that the same as dharma? I’ve been reading about that.”
“Yes, it is dhamma in Pali which is a language I know and dharma in Sanskrit
which I do not know. What is it you are reading about dhamma?”
“I was reading that it’s supposed to be the universal truth and that the universe
itself is the revelation of dhamma.” She waits for the expected praise but it doesn’t
materialize.
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“That is one answer,” he tells her, “but if you are my student, I will tell you it is
the wrong answer.”
She raises her eyebrows. She knows she read the book carefully but she’s more
than prepared to accept that the book might be wrong. He does, after all, teach
the subject at a monastery and it’s pretty hard to argue with that. “So what is
dhamma?” she asks him.
He just looks at her with no expression. “Dhamma is dhamma,” he says quietly.
That’s just a little too enigmatic for a beginner to appreciate, until she recalls
some words by Gribbin she once read in a physics text, words which flash back to
her now like a message from another planet: “Everything that ever was or ever
will be just is.” She smiles to herself at the idea of similarities between quantum
transactional theory and eastern philosophy but she doesn’t have time to
consider it further because Adam has just emerged, bounding through the doors
and down the broad stone stairs.
He’s in good shape, as if he slept well, and he greets Evelyn cheerfully. Nearby,
Raoul is transformed and instantly full of business. He has a schedule to
maintain and now that his director’s finally shown up, he’s anxious to get
underway.
“Any chance I can get a ride?” she asks Adam quietly, just before he climbs into
the van. She knows she's pushing her luck and that it’s not part of the deal for her
to go out scouting locations with them but there’s no harm in asking. When he
doesn’t answer immediately, she understands. It’s the way things are. “Okay,”
she says, “I get the message.”
“Sorry,” he tells her.
“I know, I know. It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”
“What’re you going to do today?”
“Hadn’t thought about it. Take my own tour, I guess.”
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“Any luck at the academy?”
There’s a Buddhist academy in the north end of the city and she’s had the hotel
working hard to get her an appointment. “Not yet,” she replies. But then an
instantly obvious notion occurs to her and she steps back across to the waiting
monk. There’s something about him, about his gentle, almost fragile demeanor
that appeals to her, and she feels that maybe this is a person she could talk to.
“Do you ever teach other students?” she asks him.
“Other students?”
“Western students?”
“No,” he says.
“Would you be willing to?”
He looks at her for a long time but the young Burmese production coordinator
says something to him in his own language and he turns to go without having
given any reply.
“Would you at least consider it?” says Evelyn, calling after him. “Please? I’d be
glad to pay the monastery for your services.”
With that, she succeeds in getting his attention and she can see that he’s torn
between the need to go and the need to think carefully about the proposition.
According to her book, it’s not part of his culture or his faith to talk about money
but he makes it clear by his hesitation that it’s not for him to turn down practical
help for his monastery, especially when it comes from a rich American.
“We can talk more,” he says.
“When? Today?”
“Today.”
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“This afternoon?”
“Yes, this afternoon.”
“Where? I mean... where should we meet?”
“I will guide your friends to the Sule, then to my own monastery and then after
that, the Shwedagon. Do you know the Shwedagon?”
“I can find it.”
“We can meet there.”
With that he leaves her and climbs into the back of the vehicle next to Darth.
Adam and Zach are in the middle, while Raoul settles in up front. It’s the young
Burmese coordinator who takes the wheel.
“Where exactly?” she says to the monk through the open window.
“South stairs,” he says quietly.
Then she thinks of another question. “What time?” she calls out, but it’s too late.
The van has already pulled away.
She stands watching as it merges into the disorganized stream of traffic, losing
itself behind a hulking city bus from a bygone era. The bus is so packed that
there are people hanging from the back and a couple of cocky youths have even
clambered up amongst the crates on the roof. One of them spots Evelyn standing
there alone and calls out to her with a big smirk that reveals blackened teeth.
When she waves back, he nudges his friend in macho pride.
• • •
She’s already had breakfast and since she’s left with no agenda for the rest of the
morning, she decides to take a walk and see what’s in the vicinity.
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At the concierge desk, she’s given a folded map and is assured her that it’s
reasonably safe to venture out as long as she stays within a certain radius. She’s
also informed that it would be best to avoid any military personnel unless
directly challenged and to stay well clear of all barricades and installations. In
such a situation, her normal response might well have been to say something
like: “I wasn’t exactly planning on throwing any grenades today.” But in a fit of
uncharacteristic discretion, she keeps her mouth shut and instead replies how
much she appreciates the advice. Maybe, she thinks, this is her first tentative step
on the path to salvation.
Emerging from the hotel, she makes for an intriguing market that appears to lead
down to the jetty and, for the time being, she’s happy enough just to mingle
amongst the docile crowds. A few people naturally stare at her, especially the
children, but that’s understandable. There are no other westerners in sight, nor
even any westernstyle dress, come to that. The men and boys all wear a type of
cotton sarong known as a longyi and most of the women and girls are painted
with the exotic yellow makeup they call thanaka across their foreheads and
cheeks. It’s a substance extracted from tree bark, used for sun protection as well
as aesthetic enhancement, and some of the patterns show remarkable finesse.
Eventually, she finds herself close to the waterfront as yet another heavily laden
ferry edges into its berth. From here, these lumbering boats crisscross the placid
waters of the main estuary, acting as local transport as well as connecting with
other, bigger vessels that make the slow trip upcountry via the Ayeyarwaddy
River, the legendary “Road to Mandalay” as popularized in song by generations
of British soldiers.
Fascinated, Evelyn stands and watches as the passengers emerge onto the dock.
Many are obviously the local version of commuters making their way to work,
others carry bags and boxes, and some even have chickens loaded up on their
bicycles. Also scattered here and there in the throng are the brightly robed
monks, reminding Evelyn of her outlandish idea to approach Kondanna this
morning. Mark that down as yet another great victory for impulsive behavior, she
thinks, and adds it to her evergrowing list of faults.
Truth be told, it was little more than pure impulse that brought her on this trip in
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the first place. After the session at the Ministry, she was beginning to get cabin
fever in that damn house and she was looking for something, anything, to break
the monotony. The catalyst was an intriguing article in the Times about Buddhism
and from that, it all just fell into place: the call through to Adam's company in
Toronto, the investigations with the Plattsburgh travel agent, as well as an
extensive search to find any information online. Then at some point, the
adventure just began to take on a momentum of its own and so finally here she
is, wandering the shores of a remote Asian waterway in a notably sinister
country, with a tropical sun warming up and a vague confirmation for a meeting
this afternoon with a strange young monk who talks in riddles.
It’s a far cry from Princeton and even further, psychologically, from the Merle
Chadwick Ministry. Yet for the first time in a long time, she feels... well, if not
totally alive, then certainly a lot less dead.
• • •
In Yangon, there are several pagodas but the two best known are the Sule, which
is located right downtown in the middle of busy Maha Bandoola Street and,
further to the north, the opulent Shwedagon. Each is unique in both size and
character, and it’s something of a national cliché to suggest that if the former is
the city’s heart, then the latter, where Evelyn is due to meet up again with
Kondanna, can be said to represent its soul.
Indeed, since it was completed by the fabled Queen Shinsawbu of the great
Hamsawaddy dynasty, the Shwedagon has perhaps become more of a landmark
than a shrine, with successive generations of travelers inevitably awed by its
presence. Evelyn, too, cannot help but be dazzled by the sight as she arrives in
the hotel car. Three hundred feet above her, the solid gold stupa shimmers in the
noonday haze as it has for over five centuries. After she tips the driver, she hauls
out her guidebook and like any good tourist, begins to scan the facts of its
structure: over eight thousand slabs of solid gold; over seven thousand
diamonds, rubies, topaz and sapphires; plus, at the top, an enormous emerald
worth a royal ransom just on its own. There are also a thousand gold bells with
another four hundred or so in silver and all of it in such an impoverished
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country that it’s enough to make a charitable person weep. Yet it’s an engineering
marvel and she can see why Adam would want to film it, a prime example of
ancient science at the service of an even more ancient faith.
Evelyn removes her shoes as required and makes her way upwards through the
staircase bazaar, taking a few moments to gaze at the items offered, ranging from
flowers and incense to artifacts and cheap souvenirs. Her appointment with
Kondanna is for “the afternoon” and although that could be taken to mean any
time after a monk’s midday meal, she figures she probably has some time to look
around before he shows up.
The vista that greets her when she eventually arrives at the pagoda’s base
platform is worth all the time and jetlag she expended getting here. This is the
real reason she came and as a visual reward, she’s presented with an ever
unfolding tableau as she wanders along, an ongoing stimulus of ornament and
architecture, of statues and minarets, of lacquer and glazed tile and the cool
polished marble that she treads with her bare feet. A group of four monks walks
past her in sedate formation and she scans their faces but Kondanna is not
amongst them; and anyway, they’re wearing robes of dark burgundy, which
presumably means they’re from another order. She gazes after them as they
disappear into a crowd and without even realizing, she begins to conduct a
mental review in preparation for her meeting. It’s stupid, of course, but it’s her
way of doing things, her academic training, and it’s very difficult to extricate
from her system.
She learned, for example, that like Christianity and Islam, Buddhism began with
the life of one man, Siddartha Gautama of the Sakya clan, who lived in the sixth
century before Jesus in northern India, part of present day Nepal. However, his
teachings didn’t stem from any messianic experience or divine revelation; on the
contrary, he deliberately advised against any kind of spiritual guidance, which is
why it’s called a faith by its adherents and not a religion. Although there’s still a
certain amount of ceremony, there are no prayers and no rituals of worship
because there’s no allpowerful deity and that’s the underlying reason it
managed to capture Evelyn’s interest.
According to the records of the time, Gautama’s father was a wealthy feudal
regent, just one of many, and he wanted only the best for his son. As a result, the
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boy had everything: riches, power, concubines, soldiers, elephants; and even the
elephants, so it’s written, wore silver jewelry. He was deliberately shielded from
all ugliness and by his own account, led the perfect existence. When he grew up,
he was said to have cut a fine figure, a worthy heir for the family, and when the
time came, he married the majestic Yasodhara who gave him a son. Yet despite all
this, one day he simply gave up life at the palace and went out into the forest
dressed as a pauper. Even he didn’t know what he was searching for. At first, he
thought the poverty of asceticism might be the way to follow and he joined such
a cult but after nearly dying of starvation, he realized that it couldn’t be right.
Back home he’d been fantastically rich and in the forest he’d tried being
excessively poor but neither suited him and he therefore discovered for himself
that life was meant to be lived in balance; in “equilibrium” as Evelyn
understands it. When he finally emerged from his experience, he’d already
developed a fullyfledged philosophy that he called the “Middle Way,” a
balanced, commonsense approach between the depravity of riches and the
struggle of abject poverty. In effect, what he preached was earthly selfreliance, a
total departure from traditional religion with its celestial guidance, and he spoke
in deliberate nonanswers so that people would have to find the solutions for
themselves, just as he’d done. Only in this fashion, he believed, could true
enlightenment, nivarna in Sanskrit or nibbana in Pali, be achieved. That’s why he
became known as the “Buddha,” which means the “Enlightened One” or the
“Awakened One.” And basically, this is exactly what appealed to Evelyn once she
began studying it. She liked the idea of awakening and of finding her own middle
way. Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to strike her own balance, not
between rich and poor but between her own two extremes of religion and
science.
“Thank you for waiting,” says a steady voice behind her.
She turns around and there he is, Kondanna, standing as calm and still as if he
just materialized out of the marble. “No problem,” she says. “I had a chance to
look around. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” he says, “but some feel the beauty has more to do with
Burmese culture than with Buddhism.”
“You don’t like the pagoda?”
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“I did not say that.”
Evelyn nods her acknowledgment. “No, you didn’t,” she admits. She’s beginning
to understand that she’ll have to think first and speak later, and she considers it
the first lesson she must learn.
“I have talked with my Order,” he says.
“And?”
“And you must talk with them also.”
“But what did they say?”
“They said you must talk with them also.”
Once again, she manages to hold back from her usual impetuous answer. “Thank
you for doing that,” she replies.
“How much do you know about Buddhism?”
“Well, like I told you, I’ve studied it.”
“Study is good,” he replies. “In Theravadi, which is our form of Buddhism, there
is much study. But that is not an answer to my question.”
This time she can’t restrain herself. “I thought Buddhism was supposed to be
about nonanswers,” she tells him.
“Yes, but you are not Buddhist. That is why I asked how much you know.”
Evelyn takes a breath. She’s not sure if she’ll be able to deal with this. It sounds to
her more like petty bickering than philosophy. But then again, she tells herself,
she didn’t come here for rational debate, much as she craved it at Princeton.
That’s not the expectation. She came here for peace and equilibrium, she reminds
herself. She came to learn and to accept because that’s the way to nibbana and if
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that means keeping her temper in check, then that too should be regarded as a
benefit. How much does she know about Buddhism? If that’s the question, there
can be only one answer: “Not enough,” she says in response.
At this, she sees his face register a minimal change, which might or might not be
the makings of approval. It’s impossible to know for sure but for the want of
anything better, she chooses to take it as a good sign.
• • •
For Adam and his production crew, the process of taping the interview he needs
plus all the ambient footage takes a lot longer here than in Istanbul, due mostly to
a visa snafu which unfortunately holds up all activity for twentyfour hours. But
as usual, Raoul was able to smooth things over, so now here they are with the
segment in the can, equipment piled up in the hotel lobby and all ready to head
out to the next location all except for Evelyn.
Her bags are packed too but she’s not taking the flight, she’s simply transferring
across town to a much smaller place, a local guesthouse on Bargayar Road in the
Kemendine district that happens to be managed by Kondanna’s sister, Khin Mya.
Since women are barred from studying at the monastery, this is where Evelyn
will both live and take her lessons.
“Is it clean at least?” Adam asks her as they wait for the minivan to arrive.
“It’s not exactly the Strand... but yes, I think so, from what I saw.”
“Good,” he replies. Then again, “that’s good.”
She’s finding the conversation stilted, as if they’re looking for things to say
instead of focusing on what’s important. They slept together, for goodness sake,
and she feels a certain closeness to him, yet the words won’t come and for some
reason she’s finding it impossible to say what she really feels.
“So India next?” she asks and promptly rebukes herself for such a feeble attempt.
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“Benares, yes. Then Prague and Florence on the way back.”
Evelyn shakes her head in genuine envy. For someone like herself who’s only just
discovering the taste for travel, it’s like a dream trip. In sacred Benares on the
banks of the Ganges, they’ll be discussing Hindu attitudes to science with a local
Brahman who once studied biotechnology at Washington State. Then on to
Prague, to the medieval synagogue in the old Jewish quarter where they’re due
to meet an orthodox Israeli who distributes software. After that, they complete
this round of shooting by interviewing a local priest at the Florentine home of the
Renaissance astronomer Galileo, who was once persecuted by the Vatican for
claiming that the earth revolved around the sun.
“Wish I could go with you,” she says to Adam, but immediately regrets it. “Will
you take care?”
“I think I’m the one should be asking you. I’ve got Raoul to look after me.
Who’ve you got?”
“A monk and his sister.”
“I guess,” he smiles. “All the same...”
“I’ll be fine,” she says.
“You should register with the embassy.”
“I know, you told me already... twice.”
“Did I?”
“Listen, Adam... what happened in Istanbul...”
“It’s okay,” he says.
“No... no, it’s not.”
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“Yes, it is. Really. We’ve been through all this.”
“I know, but...”
There’s the brief, distracting sound of the minivan’s horn from the driveway and
she knows that it’s time.
“But what?” he says, turning back to her.
“I’m just sorry if...”
“No apologies,” says Adam. “All right? Deal?”
She leans forward and brings his face down towards hers so she can plant a
polite kiss on his cheek. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and his light brown
stubble is kind of scratchy but she decides it suits him. Makes him look more like
the archetype foreign correspondent, genuine CNN.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
There’s not much else she can think of to say, so here in this grandiose lobby with
the crew just emerging from the breakfast room, all she does is smile and silently
touch his arm to thank him for his concern; but the touch turns into a grip and
the smile becomes difficult and the thought of him leaving tightens the muscles
in her throat.
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9
“There is no substitute for talent.” Aldous Huxley
It’s the Sabbath in upstate New York, which means it’s time once again for
another live taping of “Sunday at the Merle Chadwick Ministry” with today’s
special guest host, Scott Mowbray.
Recruited in Ohio, he’s a serious young man whose sartorial style includes a
finely cut suit in beige worsted, a cobalt blue shirt with matching tie and, on his
boyish face, a pair of titaniumframed spectacles which lend a somewhat
scholastic air to his presentation. As he steps up to the pulpit, the studio audience
is encouraged to show their appreciation by an electronic sign that flashes the
word “Applause.” Then, just like with the show’s late founder, a respectful hush
descends.
“This week,” he says solemnly, “our passage comes from the Gospel of St. John,
chapter three… ‘God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son; that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God
sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through
him might be saved…’”
As always, Jesse Eberhardt watches the performance via the monitor in his fourth
floor office but he’s interrupted by a buzz from his own direct line.
“Hey, Lester,” he says when he hears the voice. He uses the remote to lower the
volume on the set, then cradles the phone in his shoulder so he can fiddle with
his pen as he talks, an exsmoker’s habit. He’s always glad to hear from Lester
Shaughnessy, one of the few he’s met who fully appreciates the complexities of
running a Ministry. “Where you calling from?”
“Home... Just got back this morning, matter of fact. Thought I’d take a couple
days’ break. Was kind of wondering why you don’t come down join me, you and
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Deirdre. We could ride a little if you’re up to it, maybe play a few holes. How
about it?”
When Lester became a consultant, he moved back to the remote reaches of his
native Sun Valley in California. It’s a modest enough place, just a dozen acres of
scrub with a roughhewn ranch house but from there he can gaze a good twenty
miles, almost clear down to the verdant fairways of Palm Springs. The real
attraction, however, is the climate and even in the depths of winter it rarely drops
below seventy in distinct contrast to the Ministry, which is currently
surrounded by the first northern snows.
Jesse glances out at the acres of graywhite landscape broken only by the
geometry of the fences and thinks seriously about the offer. It’s very tempting,
especially considering Deirdre’s chronic bronchitis, but unfortunately it’s
impossible right now. “Wish I could, Lester,” he replies with real regret, “wish I
could.”
“Tell you what, consider it an open invitation, all right? Whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks, I’ll let Deirdre know. Appreciate it.”
“I was just calling to find out how our new recruit’s holding up.”
“Yeah, we’re just taping, right now.”
“That’s what I figured... And?”
Jesse looks over at the screen where the young man is making a major point
about something or other, gesticulating with his hands, trying his utmost to be
the epitome of the earnest preacher, full of dedication and good intent. “Let’s say
the jury’s still out.”
“That bad?”
“No, no, I wouldn’t say that. He’s all right, I suppose, does the job. Good voice...
and he sure dresses nice. Can’t fault him on that score.”
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“But?”
“But... what can I say?”
“Say what you feel.”
“Well, that’s the problem, right there, what you just said. I don’t feel anything.
How can I put this? There’s no presence, no charisma... no pizzazz. Make no
mistake, I like him. He’s sincere enough, I’ll give him that, but... Well, he just
doesn’t seem to come across somehow. Am I wrong? Tell me the truth here.”
“How can you be wrong? You’re the one’s got to live with the guy, you’re the
one’s got to feel comfortable.”
“I’m sorry, Lester, I know this must be frustrating for you.”
“Not me, I’m paid by the day.”
Jesse manages his usual rasping laugh but the mood changes as he becomes
more than a little nostalgic. It happens often these days and he can hardly help
himself. “You know,” he says, “when Merle used to step up to the pulpit, it was
like... it was like there was a magic in the place. You could feel it in the air. Oh, I
know some thought he was maybe a tad too folksy for modern tastes. What is it
they call it? An anachronism? But he had the charm, yes sir, he sure had the
charm, they couldn’t deny that.”
Jesse looks over at the monitor yet again but the young candidate has finished his
sermon and the image has cut to bandleader Bernie Taff conducting the Merle
Chadwick choir as always, this time with the everpopular Psalm TwentyThree:
“The Lord is my shepherd.” Jesse watches for a few seconds, which allows him to
pull himself together, to force himself back to the present.
“So what are we doing?” he says.
“Simple enough,” replies Lester. “You don’t like him, you don’t keep him. We can
add him to the rotation if you want, maybe give him some time, see how it
goes...” He trails off in midsentence because there’s little more to say on the
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subject. If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there. “Jesse, tell me something,”
he says eventually. “How long have we known each other? A long time, right? So
I’ve got to be straight with you, I owe you that much.”
“Okay, I know what you’re going to say.”
“It’s an option and you need to consider it.”
“Never, Lester, never. Just forget it, all right?”
Jesse knows only too well what this is all about and he doesn’t really want to hear
it. There’s been too much gossip already around the building, too many
whispers, too many private conversations along too many corridors, and he’s
getting just a little sick of it.
“Jesse, I’ve seen the tape. She’s a natural and you know it.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“Jesse...”
“She’ll never do it and I’ll never ask.”
He says this with some finality, hoping that’ll be an end to it, but Lester’s not one
to be easily intimidated.
“I think you’re being a little hasty,” he says quietly.
At this, Jesse breathes out a sigh. “Lester, listen to me, all right? I know you’ve got
my best interests at heart, I understand that, but believe me...” He’s about to say
again that there’s no possibility, none at all, but he relents at the last moment. Is
he being unreasonable, or worse, pigheaded? Lester’s no amateur in these
matters. “You really think she’s that good?”
“Not yet, no, but she could be, you can see it. Hey, you’re the one talking about
presence, about charisma... and what else was it? Pizzazz? Don’t forget, this was
her first time in front of the camera. I gotta tell you I’ve been doing this a long
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time, Jesse, and all I ever ask is a glimmer, a spark, anything that sets them apart
from the mundane. Believe me, it’s a rare commodity. How many candidates
have we seen now?”
“Don’t remind me.”
“The potential’s there, Jesse, you can’t deny it. Granted it’s basic, but it’s
instinctive and you can’t buy that, no matter how much you spend. And you
know where she gets it from, don’t you? It’s in the genes, Jesse, it’s in the blood
whether she likes it to admit it or not.”
“I know, I know.”
“Plus she’s got the name, the Chadwick name, don’t forget that either. She comes
with the brand built in and that’s pretty hard to ignore.”
“Lester, please... Trust me, I understand where you’re coming from but I’d be
lying if I told you I could see any kind of possibility.”
“Even to make an approach?”
“Lester...”
“Is it because she’s a woman?”
“No, no, I’ve got no hangup with that.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem? There’s just too much animosity, that’s the problem. She’ll bite
your head off soon as look at you and it goes real deep. You should have been
there, at the dinner we had that night with that Olmstead feller. It was downright
embarrassing and I don’t say that lightly... Okay, fine, fine... forget the
embarrassment. I’ll swallow that. But the fact remains she just plain won’t have
anything to do with Biblical teaching and that’s all there is to it. You know what
she calls it? I can’t even repeat what she calls it. No, I’m sorry, far as I’m
concerned, the subject’s closed, all right? All right, Lester?”
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“I hear you,” he replies.
All Jesse can offer is a long sigh. He knows full well that he’s going to have to
make some serious decisions about the Ministry at some point but he’s not there
yet. Maybe, he’s thinking, it’s time to put a lid on some of the expenditures; keep
the rotation going and watch the numbers, see if one of the candidates can break
through. It’s an overly cautious approach, he knows that, but he doesn’t see any
alternative. “Let’s both give ourselves a chance to think about it,” he says finally.
“Why don’t you bill me for where we stand to date and I’ll get back to you,
okay?”
“Okay, Jesse.”
“You think I’m making a mistake, don’t you?”
“No, like I said, it’s your business, you do what you want. I just think it’s a shame
to waste all that raw talent.”
“You’re right, what can I say? But nobody can deal with her.”
“Olmstead seemed to manage all right.”
“Not according to the crew who was there. Apparently she walked out on him
before they even got started. He had to plead with her to come back.”
“Tape looks fine to me.”
“Okay, okay, you made your point,” says Jesse. “Look, don’t get me wrong,
Lester, I appreciate what you’re trying to do and I want to thank you for all the
hard work you put in. I really mean that and, well, maybe I don’t say it often
enough. But much as I value your judgment and all, I really don’t see us finding
the solution in that direction. I wish I did but I don’t. Now I gotta let you go, all
right? Take it easy and we’ll talk again real soon.”
“You got it. Give Deirdre my regards. Tell her I hope she’s feeling better.”
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“Thanks, Lester, I’ll do that. Look after yourself.”
Jesse puts down the phone and turns up the volume of his monitor but he’s still
thinking about the conversation. There’s no way it could ever work with Evelyn,
he’s sure of it, no way at all. How could Lester ever imagine it would? Besides,
she’s in Burma for pete’s sake, studying Buddhism or some such nonsense. Poor
Merle must be turning in his grave.
“And now, let us bow our heads...” the young Scott Mowbray is saying up on
screen. “Dear Lord, hear our supplications that we might continue to do thy
bidding. Give us the strength to carry on in the face of all worldly turmoil, for it’s
only with our deepest convictions that we can hope to emulate our Saviour, Jesus
Christ, and earn a place by thy side in the great and glorious everlasting.”
• • •
It’s still early morning in Sun Valley, so after he’s done with the call, Lester
Shaughnessy wanders out back of the house to watch the light as it starts to ease
its way above the eastern canyons.
He heard the coyotes up there again last night. Contrary to cartoon portrayals,
they’re intelligent animals, highly adaptive, and whenever there’s an increase in
their numbers, they like to come marauding, raiding domestic garbage and
endangering household pets. His neighbors just down the road lost an old Jack
Russell that way not so long ago. The three kids were heartbroken and no
amount of promises or presents could mollify them.
But then grieving is always hard, as Lester knows well. At his age, he’s buried
several friends and relatives in recent years, so he can certainly appreciate the
kids’ reaction just as he can understand how someone like Jesse feels about his
longtime partner. The emotions are the same. However, that’s eleven candidates
he’s found, eleven, with six good enough to join the guest rotation and he’s not
sure how much more he’d be able to do even if Jesse had wanted to keep going.
The man is so caught up in himself that all he can think about is Merle. It’s like
every newcomer they bring in is competing with a ghost.
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And as for the idea of Evelyn, he could have predicted that reaction too but he
had to try, if only to appease his own conscience before moving on. There’s an
idea he’s been considering and it’s still there, lodged in the back of his mind. It
may be something, it may be nothing, but at this stage of his life, he doesn’t really
see what he’s got to lose.
He steps into the harsh light and pulls the tarpaulin from the old Harley he keeps
in the yard. It’s less than a dozen miles into Desert Hot Springs from here and
Denny’s should just about be open for Sunday breakfast by now. There’s a lot he
needs to think about. He’s had a long career and although he was as successful as
anyone could reasonably hope to be, he never really fulfilled any great ambition.
It all just kind of happened, starting right back in his late teens.
Back then, there were a great many revivalist contenders on the circuit, some no
more than circus performers with their miracle cures and their laying on of
hands. But he was just a kid and it was great fun to be around them. Even now he
has some rollicking anecdotes from those days. Then, as he gained more
experience, he began working as an aide for the likes of the young Oral Roberts
and others. He spent several good years on Billy Graham’s staff too, but people
like that were already well established by the time he made it to any senior level
and the real thrill is finding fresh talent. That’s what makes it worthwhile and
that’s why he eventually became a consultant for clients like Jesse Eberhardt. He
always had that hidden desire to find someone, to make the breakthrough
discovery just to prove to himself that he could actually do it; which perhaps
explains why he never really settled down, never became a family man like so
many others. It’s not that he didn’t meet the right person: he did, on several
occasions. It’s just that it never seemed like the right time. Somehow he always
had the feeling that he’d be missing out on something, that he could achieve
more if only he had the chance. And now with this whole Evelyn thing... There’s
real potential hidden away in that whole mess, he can sense it, and he’s been
around long enough to know that such opportunities don’t happen often.
He climbs aboard the big machine and kicks it into life, revving until the throaty
rumble echoes from the rock face.
It’s clear she doesn’t want any part of being an orthodox evangelist but that’s not
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totally necessary. What he’s learned over the years is that when you find real
talent, you can’t succeed by squeezing them into an existing format as Jesse’s
trying to do. No, the trick is to know what really motivates the newcomer and
then build a structure to match. That’s the secret, that’s how to do it in which
case the only question he really needs to answer is whether Evelyn actually has
any motivation or whether, as her reputation suggests, she’s so full of antagonism
that there’s nothing else left.
As he swings the bike from his own dustladen track out onto the blacktop, he
begins to wonder if that Olmstead guy might not be able to help in some way.
Might be worth a call at least, especially since he seems to be about the only one
who’s ever managed to get through to her.
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10
“Do not let sensual desires befuddle your mind.” The Buddha
Evelyn returns from her daily outing to the Bogyoke Aung San market and
begins to unpack the few grocery items she purchased.
It’s been over two months since she arrived and she’s become a semipermanent
resident at the MingalahBah guesthouse: in official terms, a mature student on
an extended visa. She has a modest front room on the second floor with a
western style bed but the best feature is a small balcony overlooking the street
where she can sit and read or just watch the world go by. For an extra fee, she
also negotiated the private use of a bathroom on the same floor, as well as
kitchen privileges whenever she feels the need to make herself something
familiar.
In fact, given her eating problems in the past, she’s very proud of the progress
she’s made in that respect, having tried hard to adapt to the local cuisine. Now
she eats things like curried rice with ngapi, a pungent fish paste, also kawkswi,
which is noodle in coconut milk, plus some of the more common soups like
hingio or mohinga. But occasionally she just craves the simplicity of scrambled
eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich, anything to give her palate a little respite, and
at times like this she sets about the task of preparing it with a polite good humor
that has endeared her to Daw Thaung, the older woman who usually does most
of the cooking, as well as to the two giggly teenage girls who are employed to
take care of the drudge work.
It may be a guesthouse but in reality there aren’t that many guests and those who
do stay here don’t seem to stay long. Citizens of Myanmar need special
permission to travel, so most arrivals tend to be minor professionals from other
parts of the country, often government employees who come to the capital for
training or to attend meetings. They’re friendly enough when they pass Evelyn in
the lobby but there’s always the language problem and she tends to restrict her
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interactions to Kondanna’s sister, Khin Mya, who manages the place. She’s not as
proficient in English as her brother but she communicates enough that she can
converse and even tries to teach Evelyn a few words of Burman. “Nai gawn te
lah?” she always says. It means how are you, to which Evelyn has learned to
respond “Nai gawn ba dai,” I’m fine.
For Evelyn, Khin Mya has become one of the anchors of her existence here, a fine
boned woman who possesses a keen natural intellect and with whom she feels a
certain kinship. Their evening tea together has become a regular habit and
they’ve had many intriguing discussions, often about Evelyn’s career and how
women generally live in the west, a topic with which Khin Mya seems eternally
fascinated.
The other thing they have in common, of course, is Kondanna himself, who
comes over to give lessons in Buddhism three afternoons a week. In fact, he’s due
today but he’s halfanhour late and she’s starting to be concerned. Since Khin
Mya and Daw Thaung are out, however, there’s really nothing Evelyn can do
except wait.
The minutes tick past until finally, he arrives at her door with his calf cut open
and blood trickling down towards his ankles. He leans against the woodwork,
dizzy from the effort of the stairs.
“My God, what happened?” she says as she grabs on to him and helps him
shuffle in.
“It’s nothing,” he says quietly. “Just a dog in the street.”
“What did you do, kick it?”
“No.”
“No, of course not,” she mutters to herself, as she helps him down onto the old
sofa. Buddhist monks don’t kick dogs.
She thinks about calling for help but the language barrier would make that
difficult, so she figures she’ll have to cope alone as best she can until Khin Mya
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gets back. Carefully, she washes the wound and then dresses it with the limited
supplies she has available: some antibiotic cream and a roll of gauze from the
small medical kit she brought with her. She completes the bandage with strips
torn from a clean towel but by this time, he seems worse, not better. His eyes are
closed, he’s beginning to perspire and Evelyn is very much afraid that the wound
might already be infected. Worse yet, the animal may have had some disease.
After a while, she has the idea of calling the US embassy to find a hospital but
that’s when Khin Mya returns and shakes her head. She doesn’t trust hospitals.
Their father died in one and she’s adamant. Evelyn tries to argue, assuring her
that she can afford the best in the city but for Khin Mya, there’s simply no
rational debate. “No hospital, no doctor,” she keeps saying. So they sit with him
through the long hours of the evening, sponging his brow while his body tries to
combat whatever’s attacking it.
Then, at some time during the early hours, his fever breaks and they can only
marvel at his resilience. Khin Mya believes it’s her brother’s own inner spirit that
pulled him through but Evelyn knows it also had something to do with the
antibiotic.
• • •
By dawn, Kondanna is awake and Evelyn gently unwraps the wound. She’s no
medic but as far as she can tell, there’s no inflammation or discoloration and she
feels reasonably confident in offering a positive prognosis.
Less worried now, Khin Mya leaves to organize the hotel’s breakfast service,
while Kondanna finds his way along to Evelyn’s private bathroom so he can
remove his sweatsoaked robes and take a cool shower. When he emerges, he’s
wide awake and looking none the worse for wear as he sits down to receive a
new dressing, still wrapped just in his towel.
“Thank you,” he says very softly.
“You’re welcome,” replies Evelyn, as she kneels in front of him, just a little self
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consciously. However, that's when she sees it, right in front of her eyes: the first
signs of an erection under the towel. She’s well aware that it's involuntary after
all, he’s a dedicated, celibate member of his order, perhaps even a virgin yet she
can’t help revealing that she’s noticed the rising peak beneath the white cloth.
He doesn’t say anything in response. There’s no apology but no embarrassment
either. Instead, there’s just a slight change around the eyes and the mouth, a
minor relaxation in the tight discipline of expression that he normally maintains.
It’s his own version of a smile, a very gentle, very modest smile, but a smile
nonetheless; and even while the warning signs are flashing all around her, she
can’t prevent herself from smiling back at him.
This is wrong, she tells herself. This shouldn’t happen: not here, not now, not like
this. Yet it does and she can’t seem to prevent it. He slowly reaches a hand out to
her face, a first tentative touch that seems to combine with the timeless
tranquility of the moment to overwhelm her defenses. The gesture seems pure
and natural and blameless, and she allows herself to relax. Whatever happens,
she tells herself, will be of its own accord.
• • •
During the following weeks, the initial bond that develops between them doesn’t
break, it only becomes stronger, and now each time he comes over, there are
certain moments of intimacy. It doesn’t always lead to sex and sometimes they
don’t even undress but it’s always there, a powerful undercurrent that forces
them to discover the hidden depths of what appears on the surface to be no more
than a polite and formal relationship.
Does it have any meaning at all beyond the rewards of personal indulgence? Is
there perhaps an element of spirituality in there somewhere? She genuinely
doesn’t know. She tries to rationalize that it’s normal, that it can so easily happen
with the loneliness of being so far away from home. She even tells herself that her
behavior, both here and in Istanbul, is perfectly natural, the kind of sexual
exploration that most people get out of their system during their college years.
Unfortunately, despite all the crafted reasoning, she can’t fully escape the guilt
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that still claws at her, a constant reminder of an evangelist upbringing that she
just can’t seem to expunge, even out here in such an unChristian landscape.
When she closes her eyes, she still sees the vengeful specter of her father striding
around the house, belt in hand, searching out any vestige of sin so he can
exorcize it with bloody flagellation; but then, when she opens them again, all she
sees is the kindness of a simple and gentle monk with eyes that seem to penetrate
the secrets of her soul. Without saying anything, he seems to understand and for
Evelyn, it’s like an intoxicant. He’s a young man whose carnal impulses have
been awakened, possibly for the first time in his life, and she willingly surrenders
herself to the lotusdrug of obsession. It’s beautiful in its own primitive way and,
as much as she derides herself for the lapse, she just doesn’t want it to end.
• • •
Then one afternoon, when she’s expecting him momentarily, it’s Khin Mya who
knocks and puts her head around the door.
“Kondanna call,” she announces. “He say be late, okay?”
“Is he all right?” says Evelyn, her mind going immediately back to the day he
came in wounded.
“Yes, he all right. Just say be late.”
Evelyn nods her thanks but at the same time, she can’t help thinking that it’s
unlike Kondanna to call. In fact, she wasn’t even aware they had a phone line at
the monastery. In this country, almost any kind of technology is hard to come by:
satellite dishes and computer modems are banned by law, while cellular
communication is severely restricted. “Did he say how long?”
“No...” replies Khin Mya hesitantly, “no say how long.” Then she leaves without
the customary chitchat.
Evelyn goes to sit in her familiar wicker chair on the balcony to wait. She opens
her study book, scribbled full of her own notes but she finds herself distracted,
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looking out along the street in order to try to spot his saffron robe as he emerges
from under the railway bridge. Fifteen minutes pass, then thirty, and still no sign
of him.
Eventually, a large black car draws up at the building, an ancient Russianbuilt
model, and two men emerge in army uniform. They enter the guesthouse and
Evelyn can hear some muffled conversation, followed by boots on the wooden
stairs. After that, there’s a brief silence until a heavy fist makes her door shake.
“Yes?” she says to the officer when she opens up. She’s not sure what this is
about, it could be anything. Privacy can be invaded here on any pretense.
He’s not a tall man, no more than her own height, but he stands correctly with
his hands behind him. Beyond, near the top of the stairs, is another man, bigger
and tougher than the officer but dressed in the regular black and khaki of the
ranks. Neither man is holding his weapon at the ready but both are well armed
nonetheless.
“Daw Evelyn Chadwick...” The pronunciation of her name is difficult for him. “I
am U Win Aye. You must go please. Thirty minute.”
“Excuse me?”
“You must go,” he repeats. “Thirty minute.”
“What do you mean, go? Go where?”
“Go America. Please, no problem.”
“Now wait a minute...” She tries to step past the officer, her idea being to go find
Khin Mya, but he moves to stand in her way. “Khin Mya!” she calls out. “Khin
Mya!”
“Ma Khin Mya no here.”
“Not here? But she was here a few minutes ago. This is ridiculous. What’s going
on?”
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“Please, Daw Chadwick, no problem, please.”
His English is obviously limited to the simplest of requests but at least he’s trying
to be polite. Daw is a respectful honorific compared to the more familiar Ma that
he uses for Khin Mya and the general U that he uses for himself. She’s learned
that much since she’s been here. Still, she needs some kind of help in this
situation. If Khin Mya’s out and Kondanna hasn’t yet arrived, she’s starting to
sense that this may become awkward. She’s not afraid but some deeper anxiety
beyond the immediate is starting to set in.
“All right, listen, Mister...?”
“U Win Aye.”
“Yes, Mister Win Aye... no disrespect, but I’d like to call my embassy if you don’t
mind.”
It takes him a moment to work out what she’s saying but he evidently knows the
word “embassy” and he says: “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No embassy.”
“No, excuse me, you don’t understand, I’m an American...”
“Embassy... arrest now. No embassy... go now. Thirty minute, please.” As if to
emphasize the matter, he glances at his watch, a heavy military issue which, like
the car, also seems to be from the Soviet era.
“Now look, I have every right...”
The officer says nothing but he makes a brief sign with his head and the bigger
man behind pushes through, bundling his way past Evelyn into the room with no
expression on his face. She has a feeling this is the kind of soldier who would do
anything he was ordered without any thought whatsoever and probably
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without any regret too.
“Hey, what the hell is this?” she says loudly as he treads heavily across her
floorboards and advances on her closet. He swings open the door and starts
pulling out her clothes, hangars and all, before throwing a whole pile of them
onto the bed. Some slide to the floor but he doesn’t care and they just lay there in
a crumpled heap. She’s about to tell him “You can’t do that” but she gathers herself
silently, telling herself to use her head, not her emotions. No point being brave in
a situation like this. She’s never had occasion to offer a bribe while she’s been
here but she’s starting to wonder if now might not be a good time. It would
appear so, but the trouble with that maneuver is you never know if you’re
dealing with someone who’s typically corrupt or if you’re unlucky enough to
pick on a genuine ideologue. There are still some around. If the latter, then a
simple act like waving a few bills can get you jail time or worse. Torture, hard
labor and capital punishment are all unnervingly common in this country. No,
she decides, better not to risk that route. So what’s the alternative? She’s got no
Khin Mya to help her, no Kondanna, no embassy... It flashes across her mind that
Raoul Lopez would know what to do but Raoul’s not here either and nor is
anyone else.
Instinctively, she fingers her mother’s gold necklace that she still wears around
her neck to try to take some minimal comfort from its presence. On the plus side,
she thinks, they’re not arresting her, the man said so. Why would he say that if it
weren’t the case? He’s got all the power so there’d be no value in subtlety or
deception. That means he really is telling her she has to leave. He’s telling her she
has to get ready in thirty minutes because they’re going to deport her.
“Okay, okay,” she says to both men at the same time, using hand gestures to try
to calm them both down. “Okay, hold it, relax... okay?”
The man by her closet stops what he’s doing and steps back towards the door as
she takes over from him, lifting the remainder of her items out in a much more
careful manner. Now that she’s chosen to cope with the situation instead of
fighting it, she’s more inclined to think that leaving quietly may well be her best
solution. She’ll at least be free to plan a response and if the worst comes to the
worst, she can always go to the American embassy in a neighboring country, say
Thailand or somewhere, and try to fix things from there.
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• • •
It takes closer to sixty minutes than thirty for Evelyn to arrange and pack all her
personal items but since she appears to be cooperating, they remain patiently by
the door. She recalls there was once a postgrad student at Princeton, she’s
forgotten his name, but he served in the National Guard in his spare time and he
once told her that what the military does best is wait.
When she’s done, the bigger man ferries her bags downstairs while the officer
escorts her out to the car. She hardly even has time for a last look around and it’s
only after the vehicle doors are slammed shut that she’s able to sneak a glance
through the window. That’s when she sees Khin Mya looking down at her from
what was, until a few minutes ago, her own balcony. The face looks strained and
doesn’t smile, even when prompted. Evelyn tries waving her hand, just to say
that everything’s going to be all right but once again there’s no reaction, none at
all. Khin Mya doesn’t wave back, doesn’t smile, doesn’t move. She just stands
there, staring down.
As they pull away, Evelyn strains to look up and down the street in a vague
search for Kondanna but of course, it’s pointless. He’s not suddenly going to
show up now. They make a left from Bangayar Road onto Insein Road, then head
north along the main route that goes all the way past Inya Lake towards the
airport and she settles back in the worn seat to consider her options.
Of course, she knows what her crime is. She had an affair with a monk but why
this should be happening now in this dramatic fashion, she really has no clue.
Yet she’s haunted by that last sight of Kondanna’s sister. Was her expression a
rebuke? An accusation? Surely she must have known about their relationship
these past few weeks but since she never said anything, Evelyn just assumed
from her silence that it was all right, that what they were doing was acceptable.
Well, obviously not, she’s thinking now, as she sits in the back of the crudely
engineered car and watches the city flash past. Then all at once, it occurs to her
that this might just be the last time she sees any of it and a profound sadness
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overtakes her. There’ll be no more mornings at the market, no more kitchen
adventures with Daw Thaung, no more afternoons with Kondanna and no more
evenings with Khin Mya. Will she ever be able to come back? Has Kondanna
been ejected from his Order? Is he in jail? She has no idea about any of it and the
officer refuses to give her any further answers.
A droplet of moisture appears in her eye but she wipes it away quickly and
instinctively, as if it might be seen as a sign of weakness on her part or worse yet,
her eternal nemesis, guilt; and suddenly all she can think of is Kondanna
languishing in some dungeon, her terrifying vision punctuated by the imagined
screams of violent interrogation as they echo around the dank walls. She tries to
pull herself together. A state of nervous anxiety won’t solve anything.
Once they reach the airport, the officer accompanies her to make sure she
purchases a oneway ticket all the way back to the States: Thai Airways to Los
Angeles via Bangkok and United the rest of the way. However, getting her on
board is the limit of his jurisdiction and once she’s sure the plane has left
Myanmar airspace, she advises the flight purser that she’s changed her mind
about the through trip. She needs to disembark in Bangkok and she’d like him to
please radio ahead in order to have her baggage unloaded.
• • •
Compared to the xenophobic backwater of Yangon, the Thai capital is a modern,
hectic metropolis, packed with office towers, cellphones, pollution and semi
permanent gridlock. Its sheer normality acts like a shock to Evelyn’s system.
The taxi drops her directly with all her baggage at the US Embassy, located on
Witthayu Road near the Lumphini Park. She has no appointment, no
introduction, so she proceeds to make a complete nuisance of herself in the lobby,
demanding immediate attention and insisting that it’s an emergency. It still takes
some time, however, before a preoccupied young man with a blond mustache
finally arrives at the repeated request of the service staff, who would much prefer
to get on with their day without a cynical, motormouthed woman disrupting
their lives.
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“It’s Ms. Chadwick, is that right? My name is Forrester. Please step this way.” He
takes her into a small, private interview room, which contains nothing but a
bland metal table, two chairs and a framed tourism print of a San Francisco cable
car. “Now, what seems to be so urgent?”
Evelyn breathes deeply a couple of times just to adapt herself to the
circumstances. She tells herself she can quiet down now, she can change tactics.
She’s got what she wants and any further disturbance can only be counter
productive.
And then it suddenly strikes her. She’s behaving just like she did at Princeton.
When faced with a predicament, she forgets everything she’s learned and reverts
to her former self. What happened to equilibrium? To the Middle Way? To her
search for peace and meaning? What kind of fraud is she? Is this how Kondanna
would have behaved if the situation were reversed, or would he have just calmly
accepted the situation? On the other hand, could that perhaps be why his country
is still tyrannized by a brutal military regime because no one will ever fight
back? And if so, is that what she really wants? Is Buddhism really the answer
she’s looking for?
She blinks at the shocking realization but this is one existential crisis she’ll have
to put on hold, at least for now, because the man’s still looking at her, still waiting
for an answer.
“The problem, Mr. Forrester, is firstly that I was just deported on halfanhour’s
notice from Myanmar... and secondly, that a friend of mine is still being held
there.”
“I see.” He doesn't seem surprised at all. After all, for him it’s just another
common incident emanating from the insular, totalitarian country next door.
“You didn’t think to approach our embassy in Yangon?” he asks her.
“They said if I call the embassy, I’ll be arrested but if I don’t, I’ll be okay.”
“Yes...” he says knowledgably, “that seems to be a favorite game of theirs. And
you say they’re holding a friend of yours?"
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“Yes, his name’s Kondanna.”
He opens up a small notebook and unscrews an elaborate, oldfashioned fountain
pen. “Is that his family name?”
“It’s his only name. He’s a monk."
Forrester looks at her questioningly. “Burmese?"
"Yes... yes, that’s right.”
He offers a smile but it’s neither friendly nor reassuring, it’s just the cold, brief
smile of a longsuffering bureaucrat. “So, basically, you’re telling me that the
Burmese authorities are holding a Burmese citizen. May I ask, Ms. Chadwick,
what exactly you expect us to do?"
The question, of course, is rhetorical and although she spends another few
minutes trying to describe the situation, she’s reluctant to explain either her
relationship with Kondanna or the exact circumstances of her departure. In the
back of her mind, she was hoping that there’d be some kind of formal diplomatic
procedure, an official complaint channel by which the government of Myanmar
could feel the weight of American displeasure; but, of course, that was just
wishful thinking on her part. In the real world, it doesn’t work like that and
eventually she’s obliged to leave the embassy with nothing more than some token
words of empathy and a promise to contact her if there’s any news at all.
Once she’s back in the lobby, she finds a quiet corner and sits for a moment,
somehow trying to rekindle the spirit of the Buddha but in vain, her anxiety for
Kondanna having been multiplied by the paucity of her own failings. She was so
fixated on the embassy as a solution that she’s not really sure what to do at this
point.
• • •
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It’s the evening and Khin Mya is still in the room that was once Evelyn’s, looking
around at the place that was so recently filled with American optimism and
curiosity. The balcony door is still open but the traffic has diminished and the
night is drifting into peace.
In her arms, she’s holding her younger brother Kondanna, cradling him like a
baby as the salty fluid fills his eyes and trickles in tiny rivulets down the gentle
creases of his face. For once, the monastic rigor is gone and he’s her little Koko
again, with the pain of emotions that are all too natural. His greatest aspiration
was to become the wise Buddhist teacher who knows about life, but on this
subject he was like a child. On this subject, it was the American who was the
teacher and now he misses her, yearns for her, cries for her. For him she was
special, not just because she was the first, but because she was unique. She
materialized out of nowhere, like a gift, and the enormous lesson he learned was
that a man who has never had such a profound experience cannot possibly know
how to instruct others in the art of living.
Khin Mya holds him and rocks him gently and neither of them says anything.
She asks herself how she could have possibly known what it would all lead to but
that doesn’t help. No amount of reason can soften the anguish.
It happened because she was trying to break off her engagement to a lowlevel
administrative official from the north. His name was Mg Nyaunt and when she
first met him, she found him charming but as time passed, he changed. He
started to take her for granted, giving her orders and expecting her to follow
them like any of his employees. When she didn’t do as he asked immediately, he
got into the habit of sulking or, on a couple of occasions, swearing. It was his
upcountry background, she told herself, and that it was her task to understand;
but even though he never threatened her physically, she just couldn’t live with it.
One evening she told him she was ending the relationship, that plans for the
marriage were off, and that’s when he told her he knew about her brother and
the “American whore” as he called her, that he’d heard them from the stairs; and
he told Khin Mya that if she canceled their marriage plans, he would make sure
her brother was expelled from the Order. That would have meant shame for her
parents and she just couldn’t bring herself to be the cause of that. She had no idea
what to do, how to solve the problem, but one day it just came to her while she
was working on the guesthouse accounts. She glanced up, saw a family photo on
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the desk and decided to call her cousin Win Aye, the army officer. She would ask
him to remove the American woman. It just made sense to her that if the woman
were no longer around, there’d be no possibility of blackmail. The wedding plans
could be abandoned and things would return to normal. She didn’t like doing it
because Evelyn was her friend and she even begged her cousin to do it gently;
but in the end what choice did she have? It was the only way.
The only thing she didn’t foresee was the effect that Evelyn’s leaving would have
on her brother. She just hadn’t realized it would be like this. To her it was just an
indulgence on his part, the actions of a normal grown man, a voluntary celibate
finally giving in to his physical needs. It was natural, she thought, and totally
forgivable. It just didn’t occur to her that it would all end like this and she’s never
felt so bad about anything.
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11
“It is only the dead who do not return.” Bertrand Barère de Vieuzac
The last gasp of an overnight blizzard is still causing crosswind havoc on
Toronto’s lakefront expressway as Adam makes his way by cab out to the airport.
The city’s notorious Friday traffic has already started to build but he doesn’t care
too much because, for once, he’s actually managing to escape early for the
weekend. It’s an all too rare occurrence and he’s still congratulating himself when
he takes a call on his cellphone.
“Adam? Hi, it’s Evelyn.”
“Evelyn? My God, Evelyn! Great to hear your voice,” he replies. Automatically,
he assumes she’s calling from Asia but then it occurs to him that the reception’s
unusually clear. “Where are you?”
“Los Angeles, at the airport. Just got in. I’m on my way home.”
“Hey, good for you, welcome back.”
“Thanks,” she says without much enthusiasm. “Adam, are you around this
weekend by any chance? I was thinking of stopping by on the way through if
that’s okay... if you’re not too busy. I’d kind of like to talk to you.”
“Yeah, I’d like talk to you too. You can’t imagine the reaction that show caused.”
“Oh right, the show.” It’s as if she’s forgotten all about it. “Good or bad?”
“Not good... great... Only problem is I’m heading down to Nantucket for the
weekend.” He comes to a stop, a sudden idea having just flashed through his
brain. "Feel like joining me there?”
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“Really? This weekend?"
“Strictly platonic, all right?” He hears her laugh but he still feels he owes her
some kind of explanation. “As a matter of fact, I’m going down to see Harriet...
Did I ever mention her? My senior client at the network? Anyway, she’s been sick,
so I figured I should check in, see how she’s doing.”
“Will you be staying with her?”
“No, no, she’s with her sister. I’m in a hotel, well, a small inn actually. Almost the
only place open this time of year. So what do you think?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Evelyn... is everything all right?”
There’s a hesitation before she answers. “You don’t want to know.”
“Why, you in trouble? Did something happen?”
“I’m fine... I think. Long story, but I’m all right. I’ll tell you all about it when I see
you, okay?”
“Okay.”
He gives her the details of where he’s staying but the moment he hangs up, he
wonders what he’s just done. It’s been a while since he left her in Yangon but he’s
still got the promise he made to Raoul reverberating in his head. Plus he’s also
got the Carla situation, which still hasn’t been fully resolved, hence the real
reason for the trip this weekend. If Harriet’s willing, he’s kind of hoping for some
clarification on the matter, perhaps even some guidance.
• • •
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“Coffee, Adam? We have decaf if you prefer.” The offer comes from Amelia Jane
Meade, a nonsmoking, slightly older version of her sister, Harriet Jo.
“Sure, thanks, a decaf would be great.”
It was Amelia who cooked the rack of lamb this evening and it’s Amelia who’s
been playing the role of matron, bundling the fluinfected Harriet in a mass of
sweaters and ladling out vast quantities of hot liquids and vitamin capsules.
Harriet complains loudly but nevertheless revels in all the attention and claims
the prime seat at the head of the table with a woolen shawl around her shoulders
and a quilt over her lap.
For most of the evening there’s been a lively log fire in the hearth, stoked
conscientiously by the ablebodied Adam who feels like he should try to make at
least some contribution as he listens to various chapters of the Meade family
history. He was here in Nantucket once before but that was at the height of
summer with the beaches glorious and the narrow streets filled with the
vacationers who crowd over on the Hyannis ferry. This is his first time with snow
on the ground, however, and he finds it gives the place a more pristine feeling,
the chill ocean winds making the atmosphere crisp and brittle, and causing the
permanent residents like Amelia to huddle ever deeper inside their enclaves.
Harriet, too, has retreated from her everyday persona and the barking
newshound has been transformed into her own alter ego, the lion in winter,
telling her stories and wallowing in the comfort of her nostalgia.
In fact, Adam was hardly into his first scotch and soda when the tale began: how
the Meade patriarch arrived from Liverpool in the eighteenth century just when
the whaling industry was starting to develop and the growing community
needed all the experienced chandlers it could attract. The saga continued
through soup and the main course with hardly a break: a richly meandering yarn
of lost ships, ravaging disease, hard births, early deaths, difficult marriages, civil
war heroes and more; but of all the things Adam heard about, none fascinated
him more than learning that the original Meades were Quakers; and that these
Quakers, who back then preferred to be called “The Religious Society of
Friends,” actually made up most of the island’s merchant class. It immediately
gave him an idea for a future episode of “Faith Vision” and he was content to file
it quietly away in the back of his mind for future reference.
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For people like Adam, and Harriet too for that matter, work is never very far
away from their thoughts and, once her family monologue winds down, she uses
the time to talk a little shop herself. Sick or not, she likes to keep in touch with
Atlanta and insists on having all her office correspondence routed directly here.
“You see the final numbers yet?” she asks him, referring to the pilot show’s
audience figures.
“No, not yet. How they looking?” So far, all he’s received are the toplines, which
appear to be way beyond all expectations and have caused something of a stir at
the business end of the network, the revenue chasers who sell space for a living.
“I’m not dissatisfied,” she replies, which is about as good as it gets from Harriet.
“How’s the new stuff shaping up?”
“Yeah, fine, kind of....”
“Kind of?”
“It’s a big job.”
“Can you handle it?”
“Of course we can handle it... but it’s still a big job.” In fact, for a company like
Olmstead Productions, turning a pilot into a series is a massive commitment and
it seems to Adam that he and Raoul are rapidly morphing from documentary
makers into fullfledged program producers. While they both welcome the
security, it also means a vastly increased workload. However, it’s not really what
he wants to discuss right now.
“Harriet, there’s something... well, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“So talk.”
“I don’t want you to think that’s why I came. Well, not the only reason anyway.”
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“Adam, stop gibbering.”
“All right... it’s about Carla.”
“Carla? I thought that was all over and done with.”
“No, it’s not... not according to her anyway. I tried ending it once but... it didn’t
seem to hold.”
“Didn’t seem to hold?” Harriet laughs out loud, then just shakes her head at the
folly of all males. “Jesus, talk about the neverending story.”
“I know and to be honest, I’m not really sure what to do about it.”
“Sorry, I think you got the wrong gal. Try the agony column.’”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I’m trying to say is, I need to break it off once
and for all.” He’s finding this difficult. “I need to put an end to it but I don’t
know what kind of problems it would cause.”
“Between you and her, or you and the network?”
“Me and the network.”
“In that case, I don’t see any problem at all. You want to do it, so do it.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
Before Harriet can respond, however, Amelia returns from the kitchen. “Gotcha!”
she says to them as she carries in the tray. “I knew it wouldn’t take much for you
two to get going.” She gets busy handing out mugs of coffee and bowls of fruit
salad while Adam and Harriet sit there looking guilty about having been caught.
“That’s all right, you go ahead,” says Amelia. “I’m off to bed.” She gives Adam a
peck on the cheek and her sister a pat on the shoulder as she passes by. “Dishes
are done. You need anything, help yourselves.”
“Great dinner,” Adam calls after her, to which she just waves a hand. After she’s
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left the room, he turns back to Harriet. “She’s amazing,” he says.
“You should see her when she really gets going. The sister from hell.”
She says it deadpan which forces a grin from Adam. He’s rarely seen two such
devoted siblings. Where else would Harriet come when she’s sick? He checks the
fireplace, then gazes through the back windows at the light flakes that are
starting to fall again. That side of the house gives out onto the moorland cliffs
which dominate Jetties Beach and on a summer evening, there’s perhaps nothing
more pleasant in all the world than sitting out on the deck, beer in hand, listening
to the final cry of the gulls. In “Moby Dick,” Melville called the island “an elbow
of sand” but summer seems far away at this moment and Adam just sips at his
coffee, deep in thought.
“It just makes it difficult,” he says eventually.
“We still talking about Carla?”
“It’s like she gets into these moods.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Adam ignores the sarcasm. “What happens is, it becomes kind of hard to know
what’s real and what’s attitude... and that affects the job. I can never tell how
much is being filtered on the way through to you.”
“Filtered? Why should anything be filtered? When have I ever prevented you
from calling me direct?”
“You know I can’t do that. If she found out, she’d think I was doing an end run
and she’d be right.”
“Now look, if you’ve got a problem, sonny boy, I want to know about it, okay?
End run, my ass.”
“It’s not that simple.”
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“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got to work with her and it’s like, I don’t know, everything becomes
a strain.”
“You mean it becomes personal? So whose fault is that?”
She waits but he doesn’t answer.
“Tell me something straight,” she says to him now. “You want to split with her
because of this scientist broad you got coming in here?”
Adam mentioned Evelyn might be coming but he should have known how it
would be taken. “No,” he says, a little too defensively. “It’s nothing like that.
She’s just on her way back from Asia. I haven’t seen her in weeks... months. And
that’s if she even shows up, which I’m not entirely sure about.” He’s starting to
feel like a teenager again, trying to explain spring break to his mother. “Anyway,”
he goes on, “with all due respect, this ‘scientist broad’ isn’t really the subject.
What I’m trying to explain is how my relationship with Carla is affecting the
job... and you should know how I feel about that.”
Harriet evidently decides not to pursue the Evelyn thing any further. “Well, I still
don’t see the problem,” she says.
“You don’t?”
“You either dump her or let it run its course. If it’s still going on by the time she
leaves...”
“Excuse me?” says Adam interrupting. “By the time she leaves? Is that what you
said?”
“Oh, I see. You don’t know about that.”
“Don’t know about what?”
“Christ, no wonder we’re talking at cross purposes. She didn’t tell you?”
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“Tell me what? You fired her?”
“No, dammit, I didn’t fire her. She quit.”
“She did? When was this?”
“About a week ago. She called me here to offer her resignation and then sent a
note to confirm it. I thought you knew all about that, I’m sorry.”
“Did you accept it?”
Harriet shrugs. “I didn’t try and talk her out of it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Where’s she going? What’s she going to do?”
“She says she’s got an offer from A&E. I don’t know any more than that.”
“A&E? In New York?”
“I suppose. She comes from there, doesn’t she?”
“Just across the river. When’s she leaving?”
“I asked her to fulfill her contract, which means ninety days.”
That’s only three months, Adam’s thinking, and suddenly he feels a sensation of
lightness, as if the weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Three months and
that’s it, the end of the problem. She’s going to New York. He can hardly believe
it.
“My opinion, for what it’s worth?” adds Harriet, breaking into his thoughts.
“What’s that?”
“In future, try to keep it in your pants.”
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“Now you sound like Raoul.”
“Yes, well, I’m glad to hear one of you’s got some sense.”
There’s no answer to that and Adam sits back, content to hear that he’ll be able to
get past all this idiocy soon so he can reboot his life. The conversation has already
drifted to a close anyway, so they just take in the silence for a while as they watch
the light snow float down through the blackness. What it means, he’s thinking, is
that he can break it off now whenever he likes without worrying about any
professional consequences and that’s a huge relief.
• • •
Later, Adam drives carefully back in the rented Jeep, as far north on the island as
the plowed road will take him. The inn he’s staying at, the Wauwinet, sits astride
a spit of land that leads out towards the lighthouse at Great Point. In truth, he
fully expects Evelyn to be waiting for him there either in the lobby or, heaven
forbid, in his room but when he returns he finds she hasn’t shown up, hasn’t
even called, and if he’s honest with himself, he’s a little disappointed. He’s
looking forward to seeing her. He just has to make sure he knows why.
• • •
It’s not until the following morning after breakfast that she arrives. Adam has
already taken a long walk in the frigid air, just to clear his head from Amelia’s
wine and Harriet’s smoke, and by ten he’s settled into an easy chair in the
lounge, with coffee beside him and the papers on his lap. Then just as he looks
up, there she is, walking across the lobby towards him. Must have caught the
early ferry.
“Hi,” she says quietly.
“Hey there.” He gets up to greet her and they embrace with some initial shyness.
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“How’s your client? Harriet, isn’t it?”
“She’s recovering, thanks. Tough old coot, she’ll probably outlive us all. How are
you is more to the point?”
“All right, I guess. A little jetlagged maybe. Took forever to get here.”
“You check in yet?”
“Yes... yes, just now. It’s good to see you, Adam.”
“You too,” he says. Yet to his eyes, she looks a little different somehow: tired, of
course, and perhaps even a little leaner but there’s something else about her that
he can’t make out. It seems to him she’s aged in some way but it’s not her face
that reveals it. There’s something deeper, something hidden from view. As they
sit down, he says: “Sounds like you had an adventure, the way you spoke on the
phone.”
“You could say that. I was deported.”
“You were deported? My God, what happened?”
She waits until he’s ordered more coffee and then begins, somewhat cautiously
he feels, to relate the story of her life over there of her walks, of her studies, and
of that final knock on the door.
Adam lets her talk without asking questions and even if he senses something
unlikely about all of this, he doesn’t say it. In the end, it’s really not his business
and if she doesn’t want to tell him, why would he want to force it? “Are you all
right?” he says finally. It’s all he really wants to know. “They didn’t touch you?”
“No, it was a little scary but they didn’t touch me.”
“Well, that’s all that counts.”
There’s some further hesitation. “Not entirely,” she says. “There’s also
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Kondanna.”
“Why? What happened to him?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? He was arrested?”
“It’s possible.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know but I’m worried. I went to the embassy in Bangkok, then I waited
for news but there was nothing. I’m really worried. I was wondering if you could
help, you and Raoul. You’re so good at organizing. I thought you might have
contacts, you know? Maybe people you could call, at the seminary or
somewhere. You know them, so I thought if you could call... It’s the only thing I
can think of.”
“Sure,” he says, “sure, okay. I’ll get hold of Raoul. If there’s anyone can do it...”
She makes the first attempt at a smile. “Thank you,” she says, “I can’t tell you
what that means.” She looks around at the traditional setting, as if noticing the
place for the first time. “It’s nice here.”
“Yeah, I stayed here once before. Never in this weather, though. We’ll have to find
you some warmer clothes.”
She’s wearing a cotton sweater over cord pants, fine for a cool evening in Yangon
but less than ideal in these conditions. “Fine,” she agrees, “but maybe not right
now. I think I’ll just sleep a little first, if that’s okay. This was a good idea, coming
here...” she says and she’s about to add something else but lets it drop. Instead
she gets to her feet, offers him an apologetic smile and leaves just as the fresh
coffee arrives, walking away as if her entire being is weary.
Once she’s gone, he puts the call through to Raoul as promised, then sits down
again with the paper but he can’t seem to concentrate any more. His mind is too
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busy trying to figure out the truth she hasn’t told him. It’s not his business, he
knows that, but he can’t help it. Curiosity’s his stockintrade. It’s what he does.
• • •
She sleeps a long time and he doesn’t want to disturb her, so it’s not until the
following day, Sunday, that they go shopping in the historic town center with its
cobbled streets and quaint boutiques. There are a couple of stores still open and
as Evelyn gets busy trying things on, Adam catches up with his voice mail. At
one point, she emerges from a changing room wearing a chunky mauve sweater
and notices he has a broad smile on his face.
“You look like the Cheshire cat,” she tells him.
“That’s because I’ve got some news.”
“What, from Raoul?” Her eyes come alive. “Already?”
“Kondanna’s fine.”
“Really? He’s fine? Did Raoul speak to him?”
“No, but the seminary says he’s all right. Wondering what all the fuss was
about.”
“I can’t believe it. Good ol’ Raoul. He had no problems? I mean, they don’t speak
much English.”
“Apparently he found a Burmese translator at this end, on the weekend yet.
Man’s a genius.”
She has to fight to prevent tears of sheer relief but that’s when she’s interrupted
by a nice lady with glasses that hang from a string around her neck, who doesn’t
wish to intrude but she’d like to know if Evelyn will be taking the sweater.
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• • •
An hour later, they’re back in the Jeep, with Evelyn all kitted out: boots, woolen
scarf and a purple down jacket to go with the sweater. “Feel like a tour?” says
Adam. The overnight snow was lighter than expected and he figures the roads
shouldn’t present too big a problem, especially not with a Lennoxville boy at the
wheel. Compared to the winters they used to get back home, this is nothing at all.
As they slowly wend their way around the twisty lanes, she marvels at the
unabashed prettiness of the place, with all the houses so similar in their cedar
gray uniforms with the neat white trim. Meanwhile, Adam relates some of the
maritime stories he heard from Harriet and Amelia, offering up a few amusing
anecdotes of the sisters along with detailed portraits of their ancestors. He notices
that she listens attentively and laughs easily, as if all the anxiety and its
accompanying tensions have just drained away from her, and he decides that
whatever the real truth might be, this is certainly a welcome improvement.
The road they’ve chosen comes to an end overlooking the icy monochrome that
would normally be the beach at Siasconset and, for some time, they just sit and
stare at the gently hypnotic swell of the gray tide.
“So any plans now you’re back?” he asks her.
She seems surprised at the question, as if the idea of plans comes at her from out
of nowhere. “I haven’t really thought about it,” she says.
“Any chance you’ll go back to Princeton, or is that still a nono?”
“Princeton...” She smiles at the memory. “Seems like a long time ago now. No, I
can’t see myself doing that somehow.”
“So what then? Continue with your Buddhism?”
“No... no, I don’t think I’ll be doing that either.”
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There’s nothing else forthcoming and Adam chooses not to push it. If she wants
to open up to him, she’ll do it in her own good time or not, as the case may be.
“Hey, you know who called me?” he says, just remembering. “That headhunter
guy, the one working with Jesse, what’shisname... Shaughnessy, Lester
Shaughnessy. Wanted to say congratulations on the show. He thought you were
sensational.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“He was asking me about you, what you’re like to work with and so on.”
“He was? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t say.”
“Think he’s trying to recruit me for the Ministry?” she says, her tone more than a
little deprecating. “Follow in my father’s footsteps?”
“Oh, I’m sure he knows better than that.”
“So what did you tell him? The full horror story?”
“I told him I found you to be a total professional.”
“Yeah, right... I walked out on you before we even got started.”
“True, but then you walked right back in and did the job.”
She raises her eyebrows at that, as if she’s not quite able to believe his generosity.
“What else did he say?”
“He thinks you have a lot of talent. Talked about your camera presence, says you
have what it takes.”
“What it takes? Hell, that’s a recruitment pitch if ever I heard one.”
He sees her smile but at the same time, he can’t help noting the difference in her
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attitude. At one time she’d have been outraged at the very idea of the Ministry
but here she is, positively sanguine in her reaction, and he’s not entirely sure
what to make of it. Of course, it may still be the news about Kondanna but it may
also be indicative of a whole new Evelyn he’s seeing here, as if whatever
happened to her out there has been absorbed into her system and become part of
her personality.
“Besides,” he adds, “I told him you think there’s more to it all than either science
or religion.”
“I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Sure I remember.”
“I can imagine his reaction.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. As a matter of fact, he asked me whether you ever found
what you’re looking for.”
“Really? He said that?” She sounds like she’s taken aback that anyone would
even be interested and she drifts back into her own world, just gazing out at the
cold expanse with her eyes focused on the horizon. Around them, everything can
be measured in degrees of solitude. There are no people, no other cars, not even
any gulls, and the only movement lies in the infinite nuance of the sea. Then from
out of the silence, she says: “Actually, that whole subject? Science and religion?
That’s kind of why I wanted to see you, to talk to you. I’ve... Well, I’ve kind of
come to some conclusions.”
He turns to look at her. “What does that mean? You’ve figured it all out? The
theory of existence? Life, death and the holy grail?” He says it as a joke but her
expression is not so much amused as thoughtful.
“I don’t know what you’d call it,” she replies, almost to herself. “But it was
staring me in the face all the time. All I had to do was look in the mirror.”
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12
“The courage to follow talent to the dark place where it leads.”
Erica Jong
It’s late spring, three months since she returned, and Evelyn is back at the
cemetery of St. Gabriel’s.
The temperature is kinder than it has been of late, so she takes advantage by
strolling through the grounds, gazing out at the distant lake and listening to the
raucous noise of the crows all around her. She’s not even sure why she came here
today, except it’s been a while and she just felt the need. With parents there’s
always an accounting, living or dead, loved or despised, and it’s somehow easier
when confronted by their presence: Merle Thomas Edward Chadwick and right
next to him, Nancy Miriam Chadwick, nee Grosvenor.
So what does she have to tell them now that she can perhaps view the situation
with a little more perspective? That things are going well? That she’s finally
managed to break free? That after living so long as a prisoner of doctrine she’s
starting to feel a semblance of liberation for the first time in her life?
There’s no doubt that her outlook has changed radically in recent weeks and she
owes much of it to that first call she made, with Adam’s encouragement, to Lester
Shaughnessy. She’d never spoken to the man before and, of course, since he was a
friend of Jesse Eberhardt, there was some initial suspicion about his motives; but
she was pleasantly surprised, both by his intelligence and his open attitude. In no
way did she feel he was being judgmental. On the contrary, he seemed
refreshingly rational, wanting to know everything about her: what she thought of
science, of faith, even of Buddhism, and more importantly, what she’d discovered
about herself. That first discussion led to several more, first to flesh out some
potential options, then to map out direction, all culminating in a toast over a glass
of California wine. What began as a tentative exploration became a fullfledged
partnership, a project, something new and invigorating, and for the first time
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since she left Princeton she felt she had some kind of a purpose.
Before she knew it, there was momentum and it all began taking on a life of its
own. The biggest hurdle to overcome was finance, to find a stable source of
funding, and that took considerable negotiation on Lester’s part. Finally, after
weeks of back and forth, he was able to conclude an agreement with a
specialized venture capitalist he’d known from way back. All he had was his own
reputation coupled with the Chadwick name; but Evelyn offered to put up her
minority share of the Ministry as collateral and it was enough to get them
underway. That’s when it became serious. Lester found a cottage to rent, had his
Harley shipped up and began bringing in associates for planning discussions.
Even that morbid old house took on fresh life, with the living room used for
strategy sessions, the dining room for meetings, the kitchen as a cafeteria and the
front yard as a parking lot.
As for Evelyn, she began her own transformation. Each week a bevy of experts
arrived on a strict schedule to teach her about wardrobe and posture, about
diction and timing. Others came to advise her about public image and she was
required to practise media interviews on tape; all designed to create the kind of
telegenic package that Lester deemed essential. He told her there were thousands
of aspirants in the fashion or entertainment business who’d sell their souls for
such treatment but the truth was that Evelyn never really enjoyed being fussed
over like that. Somehow it all seemed so pretentious, especially for a shy, geeky
girl who only ever wanted to sit quietly with her books, and she can’t help
smiling to herself at how far she’s come.
Yet at the same time, despite this promising new life she’s built for herself, she
still has the occasional bout of longing for her recent past. Despite all that’s
happened, she still sometimes misses the intimate peace of her afternoons with
Kondanna and, perhaps even more than that, she misses Adam. Since that winter
weekend in Nantucket, he’s been almost constantly away shooting and although
they still keep in reasonably close contact by either phone or email, she
sometimes wonders if their ongoing absence from each other isn’t just some
newer form of selfdestruction she’s managed to invent.
She’s still into her own thoughts when the blackwinged chorus bursts in on her
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privacy and the sudden, noisy disturbance brings her back to reality. She glances
at her watch and realizes she’s due back. The reckoning with her parents can
wait, she thinks to herself, and finds her way back along the gravel path, the
same as she did with Jesse and Adam all those months ago.
• • •
When she returns to the house, she finds Lester busily engaged with one of his
longtime friends, Morton Kerstner.
Over the past few weeks, Mort’s become a regular member of the team, flying in
from Salt Lake City to help conduct the polling and then brainstorm the results.
He’s nowhere near Lester’s age but he too seems to be a veteran of the circuit and
over the years he’s gained two very noticeable characteristics: the power of his
mind and the circumference of his girth. As Lester says, it’s like having
Machiavelli and Falstaff all rolled up in one. But Mort’s a gracious man for all
that, very fussy about both his grammar and his grooming, and he’s always
gallantry itself whenever he sees Evelyn.
“Dear lady,” he says, getting up to give her a delicate kiss on the hand as she
enters.
It’s part parody, part genuine, but at the same time she can’t help being charmed
by his foolery. “Such a flirt,” she replies, but much of what she likes about him is
exactly what she’s come to appreciate with Lester. Although each of them has
chosen to spend his life in and around fundamentalism Lester with his
evangelists and Mort with his Mormons they’ve both somehow managed to
retain a certain objectivity. They see themselves not so much as holy warriors but
as practical tacticians and what they offer Evelyn is smart, sensible debate, which
in the end is perhaps all she’s ever asked from anyone.
“So where are we?” she says as she finds herself a chair at what was once the
main dining table. In front of her, the entire surface is covered by reports, charts
and all kinds of debris: crumpled scraps and colored highlighters, as well as a
full circle of paper clips that Mort strung together in a chain. Also to one side is a
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lunch platter prepared by her new livein housekeeper, Greta, yet another
addition to the influx of people. She’s a neat, middleaged woman of Swiss
origin, not the best chef in the world but at least she’s always in a good mood,
unlike the sourfaced Mrs. Dimitri who never could get over the Reverend’s
passing.
Lester’s still busy with a page of statistics, his fingers racing across a calculator, so
after a moment or two, it’s Mort who looks up from his laptop to respond to
Evelyn’s question.
“Where are we?” he says, repeating her words. “Well, yes, good question. You
know, dear lady, I must admit I wasn’t too sure about your project at first. To be
honest, I found it a little... what shall we say? Different, perhaps. But I’ve now
done two rounds of fairly extensive polling and if you don’t mind the immodesty,
I do believe we might have achieved something of a breakthrough... But nay, I’ll
let you be the judge.”
He lifts his great bulk out of the chair and steps over to a large whiteboard that’s
propped up against the wall. All at once, it brings Evelyn back to her own days at
Princeton but Mort’s not about to advance a quantum theory. His area of
expertise is focused entirely on matters of the spirit.
“The biggest problem up to now,” he begins, “has been identifying the audience
for a unique message like yours. Who are we aiming at out there? Who’s going to
respond most to such an appeal? Who exactly are the people willing to traipse
out on a rainy evening to come hear you speak? Okay, so let’s start with the list of
candidates.”
He begins to use the marker as if he’s used to it, fluid and easy, just like Evelyn
herself in her heyday. At one side, he scrawls the word “Religion” and at the
other, “Science.” Then he draws a straight horizontal axis from one to the other,
marks off seven segments and, one after the other, he begins filling them in.
By this time, Lester has put his numbers to one side and is sitting back
comfortably, paying close attention to the board but content to let the other man
take the lead.
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“So at the ‘Religion’ end of the axis,” Mort is saying, “we have the first group
who we define as ‘Fundamentalists.’ These are the passionate believers if you
will, the ones who live by their religion, sometimes even turning it into a moral,
social or political cause. Next come the people we call the ‘Devout,’ which covers
anyone who has a religious conscience and is faithful enough to attend services
on a regular basis. Third we’ve got the ‘Occasionals,’ who still go to a place of
worship but usually only for weddings, funerals and so forth. After that, right in
the center, come the ‘Agnostics,’ who are really not sure what to believe. The next
segment along consists of the ‘Alternatives,’ all those who find themselves
elsewhere on the spiritual plane, be it mysticism, Buddhism or something a little
more New Age like, say, astrology or reincarnation. Following that are the
‘Uncaring,’ who really couldn’t give a damn about any of it. And finally, right
over at the ‘Science’ end of the axis come the ‘Atheists,’ whose total rejection of
spiritual faith is based, they would claim, on pure earthly logic.
“So, all well and good,” Mort is saying. “That’s the standard model. You with me,
so far? Now, our assumption going in was that we’d pretty much be staking out
the middle ground, aiming your message fair and square at the ‘Agnostics,’ the
ones who aren’t sure. Makes sense, right? But when our early research came
back, the numbers looked only soso at best. There was a possible hint of
something but only with a rosecolored pie chart. The question became what to
do, what to do?
“Well, at Lester’s behest, we conducted an exhaustive analysis and guess what?
Believe it or not, we discovered a basic flaw in the primary questionnaire. If you
ask people ‘Are you agnostic?’ you get a strange reaction. Many don’t really like
to admit it because it sounds kind of wishywashy, almost a negative connotation,
as in ‘I don’t know what to believe because I’m indecisive.’ Now with the work
that Lester and I normally do, this issue wouldn’t matter too much because we’re
mostly dealing with the fundamentalist end of things. But if we’re actually
focusing on the center, then we obviously need a whole new definition of who
these people might be.
“All right...” he goes on, “so here’s what we came up with. Please pay attention
because this is extraordinary.” At this point, he crosses out the word “Agnostics”
and writes instead: “Searching.”
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“As you can see,” he says, “this time we switched the word to something more
positive. Interesting, don’t you think? And did it work? You bet your boots it did!
When we ask people, ‘Are you searching?’ they respond much more favorably
and we receive much wider participation. But we didn’t stop there. Having come
thus far, we thought we’d ask ourselves what happens if we push a little further.
So we said to ourselves, let’s expand that single word ‘Searching' to an entire
phrase...”
With a flourish, he writes: “Searching for the truth.” Then he stands back to
admire his handiwork.
“Now, dear lady, prepare to be amazed. When we ask ‘Are you searching for the
truth?’ we get a positive response from just about everyone... and I’m not only
talking ‘Agnostics’ but right across the board. Almost everyone, it seems, is
searching for the truth. Suddenly the middle ground has become the high
ground and they’re ready for your message. They may not all accept it but they’re
more than willing to listen, which is basically all you can ask. So to cut a very
long story short, what’s the conclusion?” Finally, with his marker, he draws a
giant smiley face on the board. “That’s right, folks, I’m a happy camper. We seem
to have a winner and I don’t mean in a small way. Now I don’t know about you...
and the research data’s all there if you’d care to check... but personally, I’d be of
the opinion that this thing has some major potential. Allow me to offer my
congratulations.”
Across the table, Lester waits until Mort’s triumphalism has subsided before
turning directly to Evelyn: “So what do you think?”
She has no idea how to respond. Up to this point, it had all been theory, an
intriguing exercise in “whatif?” But now, it seems, she has to make a decision. “I
don’t know,” she replies honestly. “I guess I’m a little surprised. Actually, more
than a little. Maybe stunned would be a better description.”
“Afraid?”
“Terrified.”
“Good, that’s healthy. Nothing like a little fear to add an edge. But we’re not quite
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done yet. We still need a name, right Mort?”
“Essential.”
“A name?” says Evelyn.
“For the crusade.” As soon as he says the word, Lester sees a negative, almost
allergic reaction from Evelyn and decides to pull back. “Sorry,” he smiles, “guess
that’s my Billy Graham side showing through. So if it’s not a crusade, what is it?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “How about simply ‘the truth?’”
“Yeah...” says Lester dubiously. “Well, I know that’s what the research says but
with all due respect...”
She notes his hesitation. “No, please, go ahead.”
“Well, as Jesse might say, it’s got no pizzazz. Everybody claims to have the truth,
every ad you see on TV. What we need is something unique, something more
memorable, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“Okay,” he says, “here’s one you’ll really hate. Not ‘the truth’ but ‘the gospel.’
How about that? ‘The EC Gospel.’ It’s got science as well as religion.”
“You’re right,” she tells him, “I hate it.”
But this is when Mort decides to chime in. “Well, do forgive me for interrupting
but shouldn’t the name say something about the concept? Is that too much to
ask?” At this point, he fixes his gaze directly on Evelyn. “So I’d say it’s down to
you, dear lady. What’s your absolute key message? How would you say it in just
one word?”
“In just one word?” Evelyn thinks about it for several seconds before coming to a
decision. It’s actually not that difficult. “Humanity,” she replies firmly. “The
message is humanity.”
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“So there you go... ‘The Humanity Gospel.’ It writes itself.”
At this, Evelyn doesn’t respond, she just looks over at Lester and notes that he,
too, is lost in thought, testing it out, pushing the possibilities in all directions. She
didn’t like “crusade” so how could she ever get used to something with the word
“gospel” in it? Yet she can’t deny that adding the notion of “humanity” actually
turns the concept back on itself, somehow transforming it, giving it a whole new
meaning. Perhaps she could learn to live with it, after all.
Mort, meanwhile, has sensed an air of approval in the room and sits back,
thoroughly satisfied with his day’s work. “So I’ll just tack that on the bill, shall
I?”
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13
“We live by an invisible sun within us.” Thomas Browne
The initial tour that Lester puts together is both ambitious and arduous. It covers
twentysix cities in fifteen weeks with as much attendant publicity as they can
manage: interviews, press conferences, guest appearances, talk shows and
anything else the media might desire. He knows from experience, however, that
the demands involved in such an adventure can be excessive, so to ease the strain,
especially on a neophyte like Evelyn, he decides to forgo commercial flying in
favor of a leased Learjet. It’s an expensive luxury but he too is not getting any
younger, so he writes it off as a necessary component of “The Humanity Gospel”
tour.
Multiplying the logistical problems is his launch strategy, which in practical
terms means just a single engagement in each city in order to generate maximum
awareness, with every venue selected for its capacity. They start gently with
college auditoriums, some not even full. Then they graduate to concert halls and
eventually, when wordofmouth spreads and Evelyn is starting to attract crowds
by the thousand, basketball arenas. And each time she steps out onto the stage,
her presentation is burnished a little more.
Lester’s habit is to take a quiet seat for himself at the back of the audience and
take notes. He watches and listens to every reaction and tries to sense what
they’re feeling... Who’s showing up? What kind of audience? What mood are
they in? How much warming up do they need? Should there be an opening act?
If so, what kind? Who should make the introductions? What should Evelyn
wear? How should she begin? What tonality? Is the structure right? Is the
message clear? Which segments? Which phrases? When do they applaud? When
are they absorbed? Or bored? Is there enough humor? Should there be any at all?
How’s her timing? How’s her closing?
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Then, after the performance, he mingles anonymously in the lobby as people exit
to hear what they’re saying. It’s anecdotal and therefore not very scientific but
he’s searching for a feeling rather than quantifiable results... Are people satisfied?
Motivated? Inspired? Helped? Do they leave happy? Sad? Joyful? Silent?
Talkative? Above all, above all... and this emanates directly from his evangelist
career... does he see the light in their eyes? Have they found new meaning in their
lives?
He gathers it all up, jots it all down and feeds it all back in the form of a
debriefing in order to open a full debate on how and why any changes should be
made. It’s rigorous and endless but he insists it’s the only way to succeed; and
besides, he just loves doing it. This whole road show makes him feel young again
and he’s only too grateful for this unexpected encore to his career.
• • •
After one such event at Madison Square Garden, they eat a late supper at the
Four Seasons in honor of Evelyn’s birthday and invite Mort Kerstler along who
just happens to be in town. In his professional view, which he elaborates over the
main course, they’ve now achieved what he calls “full hype velocity,” which
sounds cynical but is no more than his own way of saying that Evelyn’s status is
now at the point where her progress has become selfsustaining.
She’s been on the Tonight show, she’s been featured in Newsweek and, if further
proof were necessary, there’s even been a story in the National Examiner about the
secret love in Evelyn’s life, an unknown filmmaker by the name of Adam
Olmstead. Where they found that piece of bogus gossip she has no idea but she
secretly suspects someone at the Ministry when they were taping his show. It
probably wasn’t Jesse himself because that’s just not his style but it might well
have been one of his minions no doubt someone with an overdose of loyalty to
her father and the need for some extra cash.
• • •
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After her New York appearance, they return upstate for a few days’ break. The
idea is to allow Evelyn some respite from the mental pressure, to take a little time
for herself, but the house is not exactly conducive to relaxation. Each week, it
seems, there’s a larger contingent on duty, arriving early and departing late every
day.
To organize it all, they engaged an office manager by the name of Joel Irving, a
seriousminded, middleaged divorcee who was more than pleased to free
himself from the maelstrom of congressional budgeting down in DC. His first
order of business was to acknowledge that whatever the house may have become,
it’s still her primary residence and he’s already managed to institute a few
mandatory regulations just to maintain some order: no smoking, no alcohol, no
disturbance and so on.
Yet effective as these measures appear to be, they’re not enough to satisfy the
local authorities, the result being a letter from the county office formally advising
them that they’re contravening the zoning laws and further noncompliance may
result in prosecution. Joel’s logical recommendation is that they move and it just
so happens he thinks he may have already found a great spot near to where his
nephew lives in the Hamptons. It’s ideal for their purposes, he announces: it has
office space and conference rooms, it’s fully wired and, best of all, it has existing
commercial rights courtesy of the former residents who managed a trust
foundation. There’s even a full apartment in one of the wings if Evelyn still wants
to live in.
Evelyn herself, however, remains dubious. To her mind, it sounds even more
pretentious than the Learjet, yet at the same time she has to admit it’s tempting, if
only because of her simple little dream of living by the ocean. Of course, Long
Island isn’t exactly Santorini and the Atlantic isn’t the Aegian but nevertheless,
she can’t help feeling that the move may be her one legitimate excuse to get out of
this miserable old house once and for all. The new place may be extravagant but
she’s afraid that if she fails to do it through financial cowardice, or even through
simple inertia, she’ll regret it.
• • •
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It’s a hazy morning in midJune when Evelyn stands by the moving truck with
Shroedinger in her arms, watching a bunch of burly guys methodically disgorge
her childhood home.
As each item goes by, she can’t help cataloging the memories attached to it
chairs, cabinets, sidetables, lamps, carpets but there are so many emotional
sensitivities that it’s difficult to recall either the context or the sequence. In fact,
much of the stuff she decided just to give away to the charity run by Jesse
Eberhardt’s wife, Deirdre, including her father’s collection of antique Bibles and
that ugly bronze Cadillac. It’s perhaps an overly generous gesture on her part and
she could have sold many items or even auctioned them online if she’d set her
mind to it, but in the end she just plain couldn’t be bothered and donating them
was the quickest and easiest method of disposal.
With her here today are her housekeeper, Greta, who was more than happy to
accept the offer to transfer with them to Long Island, and Joel who’s still trying to
carry on business as usual while he supervises the move. As for Lester, he’s gone
on ahead to Long Island with others on the staff to oversee the renovations; all of
which means that Evelyn has little to do but dwell on her own recollections. It’s a
mixed blessing.
Then just before midday, just as a depression headache is starting to set in, Joel
appears over at the front door waving a phone in his hand. “For you," he calls
out. "Paris.”
Evelyn puts the cat down and takes the receiver. “Chadwick here.”
“Bonjour, ma’moiselle Shadweek.”
She’s not fooled for a moment. “Adam? I thought you were supposed to be in
Rome this week.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“What happened?”
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“What happened? Vatican bureaucracy is what happened. Screwed up the whole
schedule, had to rearrange everything.”
“Hold it, let me get this straight,” she says. “You’re in Paris, France, and you’ve
got the nerve to give me a hard luck story?”
“Hey, we all have to make sacrifices.”
She smiles to herself as she imagines Adam stuck in front of a store window on
the Champs Elysées or someplace trying to figure out currency conversions.
“Staying anywhere nice?” she asks him, which is a stupid question given his
tastes.
“The Raphael, seventeenth arrondissement... two blocks from the Arc de
Triomphe. You’d love it. Original wood, original elevator... Wait a minute... Sorry,
that’s Raoul butting in to say original plumbing too. He’s got a thing about
plumbing.”
“Tell Raoul hi.”
“Yeah, he says hi back. We just wanted to call and wish you good luck in the new
place.”
“Thanks,” she replies a little selfconsciously. In fact, it’s such a big move, so
grandiose, that even now she finds herself embarrassed to talk about it. “Still
kind of hard to believe,” she tells him.
“I know, I’ll need security clearance just to talk to you.”
“Will you stop.”
“So what’s next?” he asks her. “Another tour?”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you after that.”
“You’re not serious... Not the big one? Really? You mean it’s actually going to
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happen?”
“Looks like it. A few more details to iron out but I think we’ll be signing this
week.”
“And you’re giving me a hard time about Paris?”
The “big one,” as they’ve taken to calling it, is a megadeal that Lester’s trying to
pull off to get Evelyn into Citi Field stadium, which is obviously on a different
scale than anything they’ve done so far.
“Adam,” she says quietly, “I know it’s asking a lot... but any chance you can be
there?”
“At Citi Field?”
“I can get you a good seat.”
“Didn’t know you had that much clout.”
“I’m serious. Would it be possible?”
“When is it?”
“Early next month. They’re still negotiating dates.”
“Early next month, I don’t know... I see Raoul nodding and shaking his head at
the same time. I’ve no idea what he’s saying. He’s being especially annoying
today.”
She’s about to say something profound, that she’d really appreciate it if he came,
or even worse, that she’d just love him to be there, but she hesitates. She holds
back because she doesn’t want to sound cloying and then the moment’s gone.
She hears him being called away by Raoul, forcing him to cut short the call. It
happens frequently. “Adam?” she says.
“Yeah?”
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“Nothing... Take care, all right?”
“You too. Hey, great news about Citi Field.”
That’s his last word and, for a long time, she just stands there with the dead
phone in her hand and the remnants of a conversation totally botched.
She feels Shroedinger rubbing against her feet and she picks him up again. His
paws are dirty from the grass and the soil but she’s wearing old clothes and she
doesn’t care. Her head’s too far away. In her mind, she just can’t seem to get past
that fool stunt she pulled in Istanbul. Sure, she and Adam still have this great
chemistry every time they speak and, yes, they conspire to act as moral support
for each other. Yet it’s still significant that he hasn’t touched her even once since
that disastrous night and nor has he made any effort to do so.
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14
“You are a child of the universe.” Desiderata
It’s late afternoon on Long Island and Evelyn Chadwick is finally able to escape
into the soundproof room she calls her sanctum. She brings with her no notes, no
reference of any kind except her own selfwilled intensity and in these last
moments she tries to find refuge in concentration.
For her, this is the culmination, her day of days, yet she feels a certain sense of
dread that when the time comes, she won’t have the strength. It’s almost as if
some gaunt imposter has taken up residence inside her thirtyone year old frame
and is gradually sapping her energies, wearing her down. Her eyes seem to have
receded deeper into their sockets and her pale skin is even more translucent than
usual.
Outside the sealed door, the prime beachfront property is a hive of commotion
but in here she’s mercifully alone in the silence except for the cat dozing by her
feet. The wall on which she chooses to fixate is unadorned white, like the rest of
the room; there’s no decoration and little furniture, just a couple of Barcelona
chairs and a low table with an array of white jonquils cut fresh from the grounds
this morning. The glass vase they stand in acts like a prism, refracting light from
the French doors into a blurry spectrum of colors across the pine floor.
All too soon she hears the gentlest of taps on one of the window panes and she
opens her eyes to see a female staffer she doesn’t recognize, evidently one of the
new hirings in the wake of the threats they’ve recently received. The woman’s
uniform looks like it comes straight from the Secret Service handbook: dark suit,
dark glasses and a security wire trailing from her ear. Does she also carry a
firearm? Evelyn doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know. She rouses herself into
full consciousness and climbs to her feet, trying to rework some vitality into her
thin limbs. The cat also stirs and stretches but after a yawn, he chooses to lie
down again, observing her with passive eyes as she walks across the room
towards the glass paneled doors. Here she hesitates briefly before her ingrained
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sense of duty kicks in and she nods to the woman waiting outside.
The instant the handle is turned, the seal is broken, the noise invades and Evelyn
feels herself immediately aggressed by the powerful shudder and sweeping
winds of a helicopter’s rotor blades. Lester’s already waiting in the cabin together
with several of his staffers, so as soon as she’s safely aboard, they’re airborne.
The westward journey takes less than twenty minutes, during which time the
landscape beneath them changes from the expanse of lawned estates to a sprawl
of concrete sliced up by long ribbons of asphalt. The flares from the vehicle roofs
glint and flash from the dying sun as the machine churns its way towards the
famous threequarter shell landmark of Citi Field stadium. Then with an unlikely
grace, the big Sikorsky banks over to starboard in anticipation of the gently
spiraling descent. From this viewpoint the arena already appears to be filling
nicely, all the way down to the temporary bleachers that cram what’s left of the
central diamond. In one corner, a makeshift stage juts out from where home base
would normally be and she herself is due to stand right where the pitcher would
normally be winding up. “Sermon on the Mound,” the Post dubbed it, which
might have been cute if the religious analogy hadn’t been so mistaken.
The craft drops tailfirst onto the helipad and slowly settles like some giant
mantis alighting from the canopy. Immediately a swarm of security officials
scurries towards them, doubled over against the stillcirculating blades. For a few
seconds after emerging, Evelyn Chadwick pauses and allows her eyes to close, a
momentary gesture to regain her composure. Then the phalanx of aides leads her
forward and she drifts along between them as if floating.
In front of them, the welcoming committee forms its staggered line, the
promoters and the publicists plus a rainbow class of schoolgirls, one of whom
offers her an armful of flowers. Further back beyond the rope are the media, the
full international circus, crammed together into a solid wall of reporters, camera
jockeys and feed technicians, all seemingly engaged in the same frenzy of anxiety
as they try to capture every minuscule aspect of this latest storyoftheweek.
There are no interviews, no preliminaries at all, and in less than an hour she
finds herself waiting in a tentative state backstage. In front of her, the black
curtain falls fifty feet from the steel grid that holds the lighting gallery, while on
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the stage beyond, a computerized laser pulse dramatizes a specially conceived
choreography in which freeform dancers clad in clingy earth tones move to a
seamless medley of worldbeat rhythms.
Personally, Evelyn’s not keen on such entertainment. She still believes it’s both
distracting and irrelevant to the essential message but she long ago conceded to
Lester on this issue because this is how he does things. He thinks big and he
makes use of such showmanship because to him all that matters is that people
are in the right frame of mind to listen when she steps out on stage. That’s all that
counts, he claims. The rest is unimportant. So now, as the preshow performers
power up towards their climax, Evelyn stands in the wings trying to barricade
her defenses against the noise and the almost overwhelming anxiety that’s
building inside her. Her focus is as complete as it can be, her mind barricaded by
her own psychological defenses against any extraneous interruption.
• • •
Watching the live feed from amidst the clutter of his Toronto office loft, Adam
puts his scruffy loafers up on the desk and takes a bit of a fruit oatmeal bar. The
building is an old brownstone not far from the lakefront and its tall windows
catch the last evening rays as they stream in from somewhere above the Niagara
escarpment.
With his foot, he gently moves aside the phone and a couple of film awards so he
can get a clear sight of the screen. There are more plaques and statuettes on the
credenza behind him, as well as an inbox overflowing with scripts and
treatments. Mounted above and around the various walls are framed scenes from
some of his more notable documentaries, plus an entire collection of signed
glossies of people he’s interviewed, from an austere Henry Kissinger to a smiling
Jim Carrey to a gloriously radiant Jane Goodall posing with one of her silverback
gorillas.
He was disappointed that he couldn’t make it to Citi Field but they had a last
minute emergency with one of the master tapes they shot in Europe. There was a
processing error in the digital compression and they lost footage. If the
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contingencies can cover it, they’ll go back and reshoot, so while Raoul is busy
reworking his budgets and schedules, Adam has secluded himself up here to try
to reformat the contextual flow. He still has a great deal left to do tonight but he
feels kind of obliged to put it all on hold for a while and watch the performance.
He unwraps the foil from his snack and puts the last piece into his mouth. In
some ways, it’s difficult for him to believe that it will actually be Evelyn there on
the screen and that the socially inept person who tried to explain the theory of
existence to him in her kitchen is now about to do much the same thing to a
global audience. In his time, he’s witnessed an inordinate amount of instant
celebrity, yet even now he finds it a little unnerving at some basic personal level
to see how much can happen when constellations align and a whole series of
random events somehow synchronize themselves into a meaningful sequence.
What he can’t totally fathom is why. What motivates her? Is she really seeking
universal truth or is she just another troubled genius struggling with her own
psyche? At first, he thought it was because she’d been deprived of her mother at
an early age but he’s beginning to wonder if that might be too simple an
explanation. With hindsight, he can see that she’s always been so much more
focused on despising her father that she seems to have dedicated her life to
tearing down his world with physics, with cynicism, with Buddhism, in fact
with any weapon she could find only to rebuild it again in her own image;
except this time it’s bigger and bolder and brighter than anything that Merle
Chadwick could have ever conceived. This is not so much rebellion as outright
anarchy, he concludes, and it can be a potent force.
• • •
Out on stage, the preshow entertainment ends, the sound cuts out and there’s a
brief hush before a simple tension line grows out of nothing and evolves into the
synthesized sound effect of a mystery wind.
Next to Evelyn in the wings is young Gordo, one of Lester’s people, and at a
given moment, he touches her very gently on the shoulder. This is her cue. The
curtain rises and, a little tentatively, she ventures out to generous applause. Her
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pale outfit glows in the intensity of multiple spotlights as giant screens on either
side project her magnified image, inflating her to the status of an icon.
In front of her there’s a vast panorama of faces waiting and watching but in this
brief instant of time she’s only too aware that she’s no icon, she’s just a thin
woman alone on a wide stage, an ordinary human thrust into this unlikely
universe of hype and celebrity and she feels the specter of doubt arising, as if
questioning the very path of her existence: “What am I doing here? What’s it all
about? Why did I agree to this? What the hell was I thinking?” The demons
persist in their nagging ritual until she steps forward but once that happens,
she’s on her way, flowing with her own momentum. The stage fright fades, her
confidence builds and her spirit takes over her very being.
As she slowly mounts the low dais with its solitary microphone, the crowd seems
to settle into expectation. This is by far the largest assembly she’s ever addressed
and she has no idea what their response will be but at this point, the respect of
their silence is accolade enough, a testament to the gaping chasms of jaded spirit
that need to be filled.
“In the beginning,” she says in a measured voice, “God created the heavens and
the earth. That’s according to religion.” Then she waits a beat and starts all over
again in the same tone. “Or, in the beginning, a Big Bang created a quantum
particle which eventually expanded to become a universe. That’s according to
science.”
Another pause, this time longer.
“On the sixth day, God created Man. That’s according to religion. Or, after
approximately thirteen billion years, a random bolt of lightning may just have
struck a puddle of primordial ooze containing some form of amino acids. That’s
according to science.
“Or, a comet carrying human sperm may have arrived here from the edge of
space... Or, aliens may have landed their ship and procreated, leaving a few of
their offspring... Or, two apes had a baby ape and one day decided he’d look cute
if they gave him a shave. That’s according to tabloid newspapers, Hollywood
producers and standup comedians respectively.”
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There’s some laughter at this point, moving into a minimal burst of applause. It’s
not the best reaction she’s seen on tour but they’re responding at least, which
means they’re ready. This moment right here is Lester’s first checkpoint and he’s
told Evelyn to use it as a gauge... If they’re with you, that’s great. Relax and go for
it. If they’re not, that’s fine too. It just means you’ve got to reach out and get
them.
On this basis, Evelyn decides she can’t fully relax but she’ll step up the intensity
anyway.
“During our lives,” she goes on, “we’re told many versions of how it happened.
Yet only one can be true. Isn’t that astounding? Only one can be true and it may
not be any of these at all.
“And that’s how it starts. The confusion. The division. The moral wars that tear
our society apart. How can we ever come to terms with each other if we can’t
come to terms with who we are? How can we build any trust if the clerics and the
scientists are so busy arguing that we can’t even agree on the most basic facts of
our own existence?
“Well, today I’m going to ask you to forget the dogma and the doctrines. I want
you to forget the propaganda you’ve absorbed all your lives. Today I’m going to
tell you the real truth as I see it, untarnished, untainted and uncorrupted by other
agendas. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Citi Field stadium. My name is
Evelyn Chadwick and I call this truth... ‘The Humanity Gospel.’”
She hears the crowd respond, this time louder and more prolonged, but she
actually sees little of what’s happening in front of her because her eyes are still
not completely used to the full glare of the lights.
“Okay,” she says when they’re ready, “so let’s start this evening, not with a
dispute but with an agreement. Something we can all share. Let’s start by
accepting that, whether by accident or by design, whether by luck or by
judgment, the fact is that we’re here. All of us. Humanity. We’re here on this
planet, right now, and there are over six billion of us. Whether we like it or not,
whether we deserve it or not, this is the place we call home.
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“Our story therefore begins with our own development several thousand years
ago. The earth was more or less formed in the way we see it today and the
human species was in its first throes of existence We were ‘going forth and
multiplying’ so to speak.
"But then, something happened to us. Perhaps it was bound to happen or
perhaps our curiosity drove it, nobody knows. We saw the natural wonders
around us that we didn’t understand and we wanted to know why they
happened. In the morning, the sun appeared. At night, the moon and the stars...
In the summer, the heat... In the winter, the cold... Clouds sometimes brought
rain or sometimes they didn’t. In certain seasons there were electrical storms,
rainbows, tornados, the northern lights... There were eruptions from volcanoes
and beneath our feet, the ground opened up with earthquakes. We didn’t
understand, so from our human imaginations we dreamed up the notion of
spirits or gods to explain these wonders and we thought they lived in the skies or
in the mountains or in the caves. Or sometimes we believed they were
personified by the animals of the earth and the water and the sky that we
observed around us. Slowly, we began to believe that these gods also controlled
our life cycles... birth and death, sickness and health, hunting and gathering,
battles and territory. Later, in certain cultures, the gods we created took on a
more solid form with statues and idols that we built of stone and gold and
marble. We developed myths and legends about them and we wove fantastic
stories that we taught to our children and which became embedded in our
folklore.
“But then at one point, at one moment in time, somewhere in the Middle East
someone had a new thought, an original thought. For those who don’t believe, it
was an idea, nothing more. For those who do believe, it was an insight, nothing
less. Some might say it was a dream or a vision. Others might call it a visitation.
Choose what you want to choose, but the thought that gave rise on that day was
of one Supreme Deity... invisible but allpowerful... timeless, but all knowing.
And the scribes of history assigned that thought to one man we call Abraham
who hailed from a place called Ur of the Chaldees. And that’s how it began...
Religion, as the majority of people on this planet know it. Not everyone, certainly,
but the majority.
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“Some humans decided to stay with animalist or multiple gods while others
moved with the great waves of empire to one of the monotheistic religions. And
they did so primarily because we humans have always been a tribal species. We
put our trust in whatever faith was imposed upon us because our tribal elders
instructed us to do so. Sometimes it was through profound belief, like
Mohammed with the citizens of Mecca... sometimes it was just politically
expedient, like Constantine with his regime in Rome.
“But whatever their own reasons, the elders gave us evidence and prophecies to
support their claims. On occasion, they even pronounced miracles. We were
assigned festivals and holy days, we had rituals organized and rules made. And
we allowed these elders of ours to call themselves ‘clerics’ in order to translate
and interpret what our religions meant. We thought they were wise and
knowledgable so we let them develop our religions and in so doing we gave them
the power over us.
“Now these religions did give us something positive... a great many things in
fact. They gave us a sense of security and a sense of identity. For many of us, they
still do. Unfortunately, however, the elders we trusted were often carried away
with their own power. They insisted that if they believed, then everyone else must
believe the same thing. So they made deals with the military powers to further
their agendas and they devised crusades and jihads and all manner of holy wars.
They gave us inquisitions and torture... they gave us massacres and pogroms and
public executions by stoning and burning... they enslaved half the population to
the benefit of the other half. Yes, I’m talking about women. And we accepted
what they said and we followed their scriptures because they told us to do so.
They told us that God or Allah or Jehovah spoke to them, that He placed them on
this earth, that He commanded such things.
“But what they neglected to say was that it was only their interpretation that
their God commanded such things... only their interpretation... and that’s a big
difference. In fact, it makes all the difference in the world...”
Evelyn allows herself to take another long breath, which helps her regain her
timing and also to sense the pulse of the crowd. They’re with her today, she can
feel it; not quite as vocal as on some previous occasions but definitely with her
and she feels that with just a little more energy, she’ll be able to gather them.
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“Yet,” she goes on, “we humans are also a varied species. Tribal, yes, but not
mindless. Social, yes, but not rigid. Emotional, yes, but not irrational. So even
while many professed to believing in the Deity, our curiosity about the origin of
those selfsame wonders led some elsewhere. Instead of a spiritual meaning,
these others searched for a more physical, practical explanation of why things
happen... why the moon changes shape, why fish live in water, why the grass is
green, why water boils, why food goes bad, why we get sick and how we can be
cured... And instead of God they found what might be called ‘nature.’ And the
more they searched, the more they created not rituals but principles... and that’s
how, in its broadest sense, we developed science.
“But only a small group of elders with their own selfprofessed qualifications
called themselves ‘scientists.’ And instead of miracles and prophecies, they gave
us discoveries. They gave us medicines to heal us and helped us grow crops and
enabled us to traverse the oceans. And we followed because some of us believed
in science just as others had believed in religion... and that was all well and good.
But just as in religion, we gave these elders, these scientists, the power to
interpret what their discoveries meant. They were always the experts, the ones
we called upon to explain and to advise us... and that’s when science began to fail
us too. Do we see any similarities here?
“You see, these scientists gave us other gifts too, like bigger and better weapons,
so instead of killing on a small scale, we were able to decimate entire species... the
buffalo and the tiger, the whale and the cod. And today you can go to a zoo to see
what’s left of the panda but you’ll never find a dodo because, like thousands of
species, we wiped it out all together. And that was just practice for the ethnic
cleansing we conducted amongst ourselves... Think of the Incas, the Pygmies, the
Sioux, the Maoris, the Armenians, the Bosnians, the Inuit, the Tibetans... victims
from every era, from every continent.
But they didn’t just give us guns, these scientists, they also gave us other
weapons like gas and explosives... And within the timeframe of just one
tumultuous decade, a gas called ‘Zyklon B’ became the genocidal tool on six
million Jews who arrived in cattle cars... And the explosives were eventually
combined into a pair of bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that even
many of the scientists themselves were reluctant to build. Now I’m not making
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any ethical judgments here. Whether it was politically right or wrong, whether it
was militarily right or wrong, is not the point. The fact remains that when we had
the bomb, we used it... and you know the result. Shock and horror at the sheer
power... but also a sense of awe and that, may I suggest, is even scarier.
“And that was the start of what I might call the modern scientific era. Along with
all the promises of a bright and brilliant tomorrow, we’ve been given monsters
that make us lie awake tonight. Instead of a heaven on earth, they’ve given us the
hell of permanent fear... The fear of biological terrorism with plague germs in our
drinking water... the fear of nuclear winter with radiation clouds poisoning the
atmosphere and turning us into mutants... the fear of genetic engineering that
can be used to clone our children... the fear of environmental collapse, with
industrial pollution degrading the ozone layer, waste chemicals poisoning our
lakes, and global warming turning farmland into desert and ice fields into
floods.”
She pauses now, waiting for just a beat longer than necessary for the audience to
catch up and digest her verbal images.
“And the worst, the worst nightmare, as we saw not too long ago in this very
city... in this very city... is when the excesses of religion and the excesses of
science combine. Extreme fanatics brandishing extreme weapons. Who knows
where it’s going to lead? Nobody can predict it... not the clerics and not the
scientists. Yet they keep going on both sides, they keep pushing the limits, they
keep telling us what to do and what to believe and they keep telling us they’re
not to blame. But should we care? Should we really? And if so, why? There have
always been wars and idiots to wage them, right? So what’s the difference now?
“Well, let me answer you this way. In the very near future, one solitary religious
fanatic will walk in to one of our very own communities with a nuclear device
strapped around his waist and in that one instantaneous flash, the result will be
ten times worse than Hiroshima, a thousand times worse than the World Trade
Center... In that one flash, an entire city will be razed to the ground in a heat blast
that can vaporize concrete... In that one flash, millions of people will be roasted
alive, millions more will be poisoned by the radioactive cloud and many
generations of our descendants will be condemned to damage and
disfigurement. When that happens... and I’m saying when not if... that’s when
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we’ll care, because make no mistake, that reality is coming. And when it does,
those same clerics will still say ‘it’s not our fault, we’re just following God’s will.’
And those same scientists will still say ‘it’s not our fault, we’re just exploring
nature.’
She waits now and there’s a brief moment of silence which is only broken, as it
invariably is at this point in her speech, when a ripple of light applause finds its
way around the crowd almost as a nervous reaction.
“Now, I’m not going to stand here and say to you we can turn back the clock. We
can’t put the genie back in the bottle and we can’t get Pandora to close the box. It
can’t be done. However, I do know this... I do know that there’s something we all
feel, something that tells us we haven’t yet found what we’re looking for. There’s
a feeling of danger, that everything we’ve built might just be falling down around
us and we’re afraid. Yes, let’s come out and admit it. We’re afraid... for ourselves
and for our children.
“But that’s all right. It’s okay. It’s human instinct to be afraid of danger. It’s our
own internal warning sign that things are not right, not as they should be. The
fact is that we have too many questions and if we’re going to survive and to make
sense of our lives and to fulfill our human destinies, we’re going to need answers.
But where will those answers come from? Will they come from the clerics? Will
they come from the scientists? After all that’s happened, after all we’ve been
through, how can we trust them any longer?
“Well, today I’m going to tell you where those answers will come from. Today
I’m going to share a great truth and I’m going to tell you what that truth is right
here and now...” She raises the level yet another notch. “If we can no longer
believe in religion and we can no longer believe in science, then maybe it’s high
time we started believing... in ourselves!”
This is what the crowd came to hear and Evelyn lets the waves of their approval
wash over her.
“It’s time,” she goes on, “for a return to the original, to the simplicity we had
before they told us what to believe. It’s time to return to a state of mind before
religion and before science, before we even had any beliefs. It’s time for a return
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to our own humanity.”
At this, the volume increases and there’s another crescendo, this time more
extended and Evelyn lets it swell with its own rhythm. She waits a couple more
seconds before raising her arms, a polite gesture requesting the crowd to settle
down so she can continue. Then she then steps closer to the microphone for more
intimacy.
“Now as many of you know,” she says softly, “my father was an evangelist. He
was on television for years and many people watched him and believed in him.
They thought he was a good man, a devout man, with a fine sense of values...
what they like to call family values... Well, let me tell you something. I was a
member of his family and I knew the truth. Now, I’m not going to say he wasn’t a
good man in his own way, and I’m not going to deny his reputation because so
many fine people did believe in him... from a distance. But what I will say is that
he gave his life to the Bible, and I mean the literal Bible, and let me tell you
something else... I know the Bible! I know it inside out and I’m here in front of the
whole world to say that while there are many interesting things written there and
many good stories, the fact is that the Bible, when taken literally, can be inhuman.
Yes, the word is inhuman... and as a child, I was terrified of it. I didn’t appreciate
that it was written back in times when life was different, when the acts it
preaches were part of everyday existence... racism and slavery and beatings and
bigamy. How was I to know?”
She takes a breath now, pausing to gaze around to every section of the crowd, left
and right, from the lowest seats all the way up to the highest part of the stands.
She’s more used to the light now and she takes full advantage.
“So you know what I did? I rebelled. How many of you have children who rebel
in some form or another? Many of you, I’ll bet. But my own rebellion wasn’t
through aggression or violence, or drinking or drugs... although I guess it could
easily have been if I think about it now. My own rebellion was more internal, you
might say. I happened to show some promise in certain subjects at school, in
math and science, and certain of the teachers saw that. I was lucky, I admit it. I
was very lucky. So that’s how I channeled my rebellion. I dove into science for
two reasons. It meant I had an escape into which I could put all my energies, and
it was also diametrically opposed to everything my father and his Bible believed
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in. Instead of Biblical creation, I had Darwin’s evolution. Instead of Moses and
Jesus and Mohammed, I had Newton and Planck and Einstein. They became my
new heroes, my new icons, and I guess you could say that in my own way, I
worshipped them. I thought I could counter fundamentalist religion with
rational science... and so that’s what I tried to do.
“As soon as I could, I applied to Einstein’s former university, Princeton, where he
spent the last years of his life. And I was so eager to go and make my escape, I
studied like nobody has ever studied and I was accepted at sixteen. I think I was
just so desperate to leave the confines of my upbringing that I was willing to do
anything, even if that included studying for every waking hour.
“And so, yes, I arrived at Princeton and yes, I went on working very hard and I
did well. And when my father showed up one time to preach at the chapel, I
stayed away. I couldn’t face it, I couldn’t bear it. It’s possible I broke his heart and
I know that’s what some believe. I wasn’t aggressive or violent but by that time, I
was just as rebellious as any who are.
“Eventually I graduated and entered doctorate studies where I learned about a
whole new world... the strange, wonderful, fascinating world of quantum
physics. This is the study of matter on such a small scale that it’s unimaginable.
Many of us learn about molecules and atoms in high school chemistry. Many still
think that an atom is just about as small as it gets. Well, let me tell you, the
quantum world is billions of times smaller than an atom, billions of times, and to
this day, nobody truly understands it. When you get down to that level, there are
so many weird anomalies, so many strange paradoxes that just don’t jive with
common sense, that even the world’s most brilliant scientists have yet to figure it
all out. Even Einstein himself couldn’t do it and it remained the great frustration
of his life. Well, rest assured... I’m not going to try and explain quantum physics
to you today...”
This always raises a laugh and she waits for it to die down.
“But if anyone does happen to be interested, there are several good pages on my
website that delve into it and raise some of the more intriguing questions. All I’m
going to say today is that it was like a whole new world to me and I was captured
by it. For a long time, nothing else mattered to me. In effect, my science became
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my religion and I believed in it... so much so, that when the chance came to
explore new areas, I always volunteered. I jumped at the chance.
“And then something wonderful happened. I was given the opportunity to lead a
research team and I have to tell you it was like a dream come true. It was like I’d
entered the scientific priesthood... and as long as I followed the doctrine, I was
fine. But then I began to explore further, a whole new field that still remains wide
open... the quantum relationship between ourselves, the human species, and the
rest of the cosmos. This became my area of study and it intrigued me. What is the
essence of this relationship? What is the connection? What is the link? We know
that at the quantum level, particles can interact with each other at great distances.
We know this. It’s been proven many times. It’s how we get the expression
‘quantum leap’... And we also know that we humans, like everything else in our
universe, are made of the same particles. So the real question becomes... if we
humans can interact with the cosmos, how exactly do we do it?
“And this is a fascinating question, perhaps the most fascinating of all time,
because it goes all the way back to where we started... right back to who we are
and where we come from. In fact, I found it so fascinating that I began to push
hard, to argue against the scientific priesthood. I began to see beyond their rules
and rituals to the possibility of something else, of something remarkable, and
that’s what I’m going to tell you about today. And if I hadn’t done that, you know
what would have happened? I’ll tell you. I wouldn’t be standing here in front of
you right now. I’d still be at Princeton teaching quantum physics.”
This gives rise to a new stir in the crowd. It’s not laughter as such, but she still
gives it the necessary time to dissipate.
“What I was pushing for was a further proposition, a thesis which I called the EC
causality... And this EC causality proposes that not only are we humans
connected to the cosmos but that this connection works as a direct relationship...
basically a cause and effect, if you like. What does this mean? In simple terms it
means our human brain is active. We have the capacity to generate thoughts
whenever we wish. We have free will and we have the means to use it with our
own consciousness. I therefore proposed in my thesis that within this causal link,
this quantum connection, that we are the ones doing the transmitting... that we
are literally sending out our thoughts, quantum particle by quantum particle. But
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while we are the ones who are active, the rest of the cosmos is passive. It is made
of matter and energy just as we are, but it has neither the will nor the
consciousness nor the intelligence. We might say it has substance but no sentience.
Within this relationship, we can therefore presume it’s on the receiving end. It
can respond, it can give us feedback, but nothing more.
“And what all of this comes down to is the idea... the astounding, astonishing,
amazing idea... that we may have the potential within us, not just to interact, but
also to influence and yes... I hesitate to even say it... perhaps even to control the
cosmos. To control the cosmos! Has there ever been a bigger dream? Has there ever
been a wider vision? And that was where my research was leading me...
“But, no, no, it was too radical for the scientific priesthood. It was heresy, it was
sacrilege, and you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because they couldn’t bring
themselves to accept such a profound change in their worldview. Their existing
notions were too ingrained. All their lives, they’d been led to believe that our
species is nothing, just specks, totally dwarfed in the great scheme of things. And
this was the essence of our difference. We had arguments, we had fights, but I
couldn’t seem to open their minds... so once again, I rebelled and once again, I
quit. That’s right, I simply quit. I left Princeton. I left my status and my salary and
I never went back.
“But you know, with hindsight, leaving was the best thing that ever happened to
me, because that’s when the answers started to come to me. After thirty years of
bouncing back and forth between religion and science, it happened very
suddenly. I won’t say like a ‘blinding light’ because I don’t want to use a religious
expression... I’m no St. Paul on the way to Damascus. And I won’t say I analyzed
it and then cried ‘Eureka’ because I don’t want to use a scientific reference... I’m
no Archimedes either. What I will say, however, is that it brought me to a deep
realization.
“And what I realized is that both religion and science are just the means to an
end. Neither of them is the end in itself. That’s right! Religion and science are two
sides of the same coin, two faces of the same mountain of truth we have to climb.
They’re alternative ways of seeing but they’re not really what we want to observe.
As a species, we’ve been hijacked... and that’s a very provocative word these days
but it’s the best word I can think of. We’ve been hijacked over the years by both of
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them. First it was religion, then it was science, just like in my own life. First
religion, then science.
“Religion hijacks us with its traditions and ceremonies and this takes up a large
amount of time in our lives. Religion asks that we go to the church or to the
temple or to the mosque, that we pray and sing on all the right occasions, that we
learn and repeat and repent, because religion tries to make us feel love or to
make us feel guilt. Religion wants us to sing praises at the same time as we bow
down and beg for forgiveness. We are asked to believe that our journey in life is
dependent on whether we do what religion tells us. ‘Love now! Repent now!
Fight now! Die now!’ Not only that, but religion even promises us the bonus of
another life afterwards, even better than this one. It’s like a TV commercial. If you
repent now we’ll not only let you live this life but we’ll also throw in another,
better life, absolutely free!”
The crowd is into this now and they’re able to let go more easily. The laughter
rolls freely here, this time with a loud round of applause.
“The problem,” she goes on, “is that all of this, all of this, removes us far away
from where we want to be. And that’s just religion. Now let’s talk about science.
“What science does is ask us for money... but it doesn’t call it ‘money.’ It calls it
‘funding.’ Science asks for funding and then demands that we step aside while it
goes to work, doing things behind laboratory doors that we never know about
until the scientists choose to tell us. And I know about this the same way I know
about religion... because I was there. I was on the other side of those doors and I
know.
“Science doesn’t tell us to pray, it tells us to trust, and that if only we trust the
technicians in the white coats, everything will turn out fine. We’ll have the future
we always dreamed about, the future where we’ve conquered all poverty at home
and then go wandering through space to spread the good word of peace and
enlightenment. But that’s not necessarily what comes out of the laboratories. The
people in the white coats aren’t always working on a cure for cancer... Sometimes
they’re working on ways to spread anthrax or toxic gas or nuclear terror.”
This, too, receives some major applause.
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“All right, let’s pause a moment here because I don’t want you to get the wrong
idea. I don’t want to stand here and say that all religion is wrong and all science is
evil. Far from it. I’m not like that. I don’t want to be another demagogue who says
that I’m right and nobody else. So I’d like to acknowledge here how much people
feel reassured by the process of religion and how much we’ve all gained from the
great progress of science. I’m not against either of them. As a matter of fact, I’m
not only not against them, I’m in favor of them... as long as we keep them in
proportion. Like I said, they are the means to an end, not the end in itself. They’re
useful. They can help us. It’s just that we shouldn’t trust them to be the total
answer. We can keep them if we like, that’s all right. We can even make full use of
them if we want to... but we don’t need to lean on them like a crutch. We don’t
need to believe everything their proponents say, neither the clerics nor the
technicians. It’s not necessary... And why? Why? The answer that came to me is
that we can rely on ourselves. We can rely on our own judgment. Let me repeat
that, loudly and clearly... We can rely on our own judgment.
“Now... you might hear from religion that there are such beings as angels who
are more powerful than we are, who bring us messages from on high. But apart
from Bible stories and church windows and TV shows... where’s the proof?
Who’s ever met one? Not me. And you’ll also hear from science that there are
such beings as aliens, other species who may be more intelligent and more
advanced than we are. We’re told that they must be there, it stands to reason. But
once again, apart from ‘ET’ and ‘Star Trek,’ where’s the proof? Oh sure, people
talk about UFO’s and abductions and Area 51, and they proclaim ‘The truth is
out there!’ Sure, I know all about that stuff too... but when I ask exactly where out
there, they just point vaguely and say it’s common knowledge, it’s conventional
wisdom. Well, I’m sorry, it’s not conventional to me and nor is it wisdom.
“Religion and science... angels and aliens... Show me where they are! Show me! I
have an open mind. If the proof is legitimate, I’ll believe it, I promise you... but as
much as I’ve probed, as much as I’ve asked the questions, no one on either side
has ever been able to show me. Is anyone in this crowd an angel? Please, spread
your wings and touch us. Is anyone here an alien? Please, call in your mother
ship and beam us aboard.”
This invariably gets a laugh too.
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“As I see it, at this stage of our human existence, at this stage of our human
journey, we have a choice... We can allow ourselves to be sidetracked and to
believe these myths in the hope that there’s something out there, anything, just so
we don’t have to feel we’re alone... Or... Or... we can accept that we’re in charge of
our own destiny... each of us individually and all of us collectively. We are in
control and we can create our world, our cosmos, our universe, as we see fit.
“After a lifetime of religion and science, I came to the realization that we humans
are not just the oneday creation of some Divine Being who sits in judgment, as
religion would have us believe. And we humans are not just a minuscule species
in the vast distance of space, as science would have us believe... We are more than
that. We are humanity. I’ll repeat that. We are humanity and that means we are
unique. We are the intellectual center, the emotional center and, yes, the ethical
center of the universe. We need to be proud of that. Our human brain is the most
complex and impressive thing in all existence. We need to be proud of that too.”
Here she receives a large response. There’s a little stomping, too, from
somewhere and even a few whistles, and she begins to raise the pitch steadily
towards maximum.
“There is no religion that can tell us what to do, no science that can determine
how we think. There are no clerics in robes who can impose their will, no
technicians in white coats who can dictate our dreams...” The applause tries to
start but this time the tone of her voice doesn’t allow it because she needs to keep
going. “Nor are there any great political leaders who can use either the stick of
religion or the carrot of science to lure us, because such leaders are not great.
They’re not even leaders. They’re manipulators and it’s time we recognized them
as such. It’s time we stood up and accepted the responsibility of who we are and
what we should be.”
Here she waits to let the response rise of its own accord, to whatever level it
wants to achieve.
“We are the human species and we have a unique place in this universe. We are
part of this universe, we are made of this universe and I contend that we have the
ability to interact and even to control this universe. It’s time we stood up and
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accepted that infinite, eternal responsibility. It’s time we behaved like adults, not
children who have to be led. It’s time that we decided that if we want a better
world, a better society and a better life, it’s our own decision. We can’t trust the
priests or the scientists and we certainly can’t trust the politicians who make use
of them both. It’s time we decided that if we want peace and not war... if we want
to live together without destroying each other... if we want to preserve the beauty
of this planet instead of annihilating it... if we want to explore space instead of
militarizing it, we can do so. We can do anything we want because we are in
control. We are in control of our own existence. We are in control of our own
spirituality. We are in control of both our own individual fate and our own
collective destiny... We are strong, we are capable, we are free, we are unique, we
are humanity. This is the true gospel and we must return to who we are.”
The noise erupts, tumultuous, and the applause echoes around her as she tries to
keep herself steady. “Never smile,” Lester told her. “It’s not a rock concert or a
political rally. This is a lot more serious. Keep it lowkey and modest.” So she
doesn’t smile; instead she simply nods her acknowledgment, a lone woman
sharing her own discovered truth with several million friends.
• • •
Also tuned in to the broadcast this evening is Jesse Eberhardt, sitting
outstretched in his sumptuous finished basement with his feet up and a scotch in
his hand.
It’s a big space under a big house, with deeppile carpeting, quartz lighting, a
suite of massive leather furniture and, as the focus of the whole room, a home
theater system that would do justice to a small cinema. He likes to catch the news
when he can and occasionally takes in some football or golf, but apart from that,
he only ever watches TV on certain occasions: a presidential address or an
evangelical crusade – or a special event like "The Humanity Gospel" featuring the
daughter of his late partner who happens to be speaking at Citi Field stadium.
Deirdre’s out this evening, as she so often is, at one of her charity functions. She
was never very fond of Evelyn even when Merle was alive and had no interest
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whatsoever in staying around. She could never bring herself to forgive what she
always saw as silent disobedience and she could never be dissuaded that Evelyn
wasn’t at least partly responsible for the heart attack that ended the man’s life.
As for Jesse himself, he’s not as shocked as he perhaps should be at Evelyn’s
performance. On the contrary, he can’t help wondering if he himself could have
been a little more ready to accept the idea that she take over from her father
when Lester suggested it. It’s supposed to be a Christian organization after all,
dedicated to proselytizing whenever possible, and he can see how he might have
been more amenable to translating Evelyn’s behavior as a simple lapse of faith.
When people stray, it’s not damnation that brings them back but encouragement.
Sure, it’s a little late now but he can’t help thinking she might have been
somehow redeemable if only he’d tried harder, if only he hadn’t been so
reactionary. She does indeed have a major talent and with more effort on his part,
he might well have been able to capture and convert it for the sake of the Ministry
– but he didn’t and that’s all there is to it. There’s no point crying. So he just sits
there with his drink in his hand and his unfinished supper on a tray next to him
and he tries to avoid dwelling on all the mighthavebeens.
Nevertheless, as he watches the overwhelming audience reaction – the noise
level, the enthusiasm, the endless ovation – it brings home the undeniable fact
that his loss is Lester’s gain. The man had vision and it leaves Jesse to reconsider
the extent of his own deficiencies in that department. In the end, all the business
skills in the world can’t make up for a lack of vision.
• • •
On the way back to Long Island, Lester Shaughnessy is as ecstatic as his taciturn
personality will allow him to be. As quiet as he was on the flight over, that’s how
vocal he is on the return. The crowd was in excess of thirtysix thousand, which
meant the stadium was over twothirds full and Evelyn was right on top of her
game.
As the helicopter churns its way eastwards through the night sky, he’s full of
plans and ideas and he talks incessantly, hardly finishing one thought before he’s
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on to another. “Let’s take the crew out tonight,” he says at one point. “All of ’em,
the whole gang, someplace noisy with beer. What d’you think, Evelyn? You like
seafood or barbecue with your beer? Oh yeah, right, you don’t eat meat. Okay,
we’ll do seafood. You eat that? Must be a dozen places. Is lobster in season?
Anybody here know?”
For her part, Evelyn can hardly reply to any of this. She’s drained from the
adrenaline high and has absolutely no wish to go for a rowdy night out,
celebration or no celebration. But as soon as they touch down, Lester charges out
of the chopper, keen and eager to roam the grounds and round everyone up like
the natural cowboy he is.
So far no one’s found a suitable name for this estate they purchased, so they call
it simply “the property.” It consists of almost four acres with nearly two hundred
feet of prime ocean frontage not far from Sagaponack within the Southampton
boundaries, which as Evelyn has been told ad nauseam by the locals, was the very
first community in the state of New York to be settled by the English. There are
several buildings but the main house is a large, pillared affair in the neofederal
style which not only acts as their headquarters, it also contains a wing on two
floors which has become Evelyn’s private residence where she and the cat can
retreat or wander around depending on how they feel. She’s got the lawns, she’s
got the beach, she’s got some private landscaped walkways and best of all, she
has a broad oceanside terrace where she can sit in her own world of seclusion.
With the sole exception of Greta, who has her own small quarters in the back of
the building, there are no other residents. Members of the permanent staff reside
elsewhere and janitorial, security and other services are all outsourced.
“You sure you won’t come?” says Lester again. “It’ll be a blast.”
“I don’t think so... but thanks all the same. Tell the guys they’re all terrific and
this one’s on me.”
It’s close to ten before they all finally leave and she knows the party will probably
last much of the night. It’s the first occasion they’ve all really had to let loose and
she’s positive they’ll make a good job of it.
She locks up the apartment door, pours herself a juice, says hello to Shroedinger
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and then wanders through to her favorite chair on the terrace. She has her own
superb kitchen if she wants to make herself something and failing that, she
knows that Greta’s still on call if necessary.
She doesn’t feel like eating though, not tonight. All she wants to do is sit. It’s a
fine, windless evening and she can sense rather than hear the waves as they lap
their gentle way onto the sands. She runs her hand through her stillshort hair
and thinks about picking up the phone to call Adam but finally decides against
it. She knows there must be a good reason, or perhaps even a hundred good
reasons, why he didn’t show up; but still, she can’t help the feeling that her day,
triumph though it was, has been marred.
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15
“Critics are like eunuchs in a harem.” Brendan Behan.
The odds have to be against any letter from Myanmar arriving at its destination
with a badlyspelled, handwritten envelope addressed only as “Nashinal
Examinna, America, USA” with no street, city, zip code or any other information.
First of all, the lack of protocol would mean the US postal service couldn’t
process it directly so it would pass to investigation, where the location would be
determined as Boca Raton, Florida. Then, no doubt, some sorting supervisor
would punch up a warning code and learn that the intended recipient was the
site of one of the first anthrax attacks post9/11. Based on that, the FBI would be
informed and the letter would be officially opened and screened according to the
revised regulations about suspicious mail. If nothing were found, it would be
resealed and relabeled with the correct details and delivered with a formal note
of explanation. Then, if and when it arrived in the paper’s own mail room at their
corporate office on Broken Sound Boulevard, it would receive the full attention
all over again, including a possible call to local authorities. Finally, even after all
that, they still wouldn’t know the recipient’s name and it might wander around
to several people before it found a home.
That’s how such a letter happens to end up on the desk of Vicki Rosemeyer, the
newsroom coordinator. She too is suspicious and reluctant to touch it, even
though it’s been stamped “Opened and inspected” with a note personally signed by
Tracy, the mail room supervisor; and even then, it’s only when Tracy’s back from
break and can confirm it that Vicki ventures to slash open the taped envelope.
The lined notepaper inside is of the cheapest quality and the English is atrocious
but since it’s not uncommon for the tabloid to receive mail that’s either from
abroad or from immigrants, she does her best to make out what it says:
“To Nashinal Examinna, America, USA.
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“I no yu hav intrress Evelin Chadwik. I rite letta to say my brutha Kondanna ded from
Evelin Chadwik. I can tell yu wot hapen. Yu plees coll soon ok. I wayt yu coll ok. Sori bad
Englis.
Khin Mya
MingalahBah Hottel Bargayar rd Kemendine Yangon Myanmar.”
Vicki raises her eyebrows and reads it again, just to digest what it’s trying to say.
Then because it says to call, she automatically looks for a phone number, finally
finding one scrawled on the back of the envelope, no doubt added belatedly once
the letter was already sealed. She’s about to go get some coffee but first she takes
the letter to drop off at the desk of her boss, Ronald G. Bream, whose official title
is Deputy News Editor. He’s on the phone as always, so she just taps it as an
indication that he should read it and leaves it there.
Five minutes later, she’s back at her desk as he ambles along, shirt cuffs rolled
back, with the letter and envelope in his hand. He’s in his fifties but trim and well
bronzed and the only giveaway to his age is receding blond hair that’s kind of
patchy; that plus his expression, which always makes him look like he’s suffering
from a stomach upset. “What is this?” he says.
Vicki looks up at him. “You see what I see,” she replies.
“Was it inspected?”
She’s offended by that. “Of course it was damn inspected. Would I have given it
to you otherwise? Would I even have touched it? What do you take me for?”
Ronald G. ignores her and stands thinking. “You want to call her?”
“Me?”
“Sure, you. Why not you?”
“That’s your job, to call people like that.”
“And this time I’m asking you.” Then as an afterthought, he adds “Please?”
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Vicki looks at him again. “Give it here,” she says wearily.
“Just find out as much as you can. If it sounds interesting, tell her I’ll call her
back.”
“Oh yeah? And since when do you trust my judgment?”
“You’re right. You’d better tape it.”
It’s always like this between them and has been since the day she arrived six
months ago. But as she tells her husband, he’s not so bad because at least he’s
rude to her face and never says things behind her back, which has to count for
something.
She’s got a ton of work to do today but she’s actually intrigued by the task she’s
been handed and she stares at the phone number for a long time, trying to
organize the steps in her head: how to find the country code, how to work out the
time difference and what she should say to this person if she ever finally gets
through. She can’t even tell if the name belongs to a man or a woman.
• • •
It’s twentyfour hours later when Vicki Rosemeyer steps into Ronald G. Bream’s
dump of an office just as he’s arriving back from lunch. She’s not sure who he
was lunching with but he seems in a good mood for once.
“What’s up?” he says, offering her some gum, which she declines.
“This thing you asked me to do,” she answers, opening up the manila file she’s
carrying. It contains the letter with the envelope neatly attached by paper clip,
her notes on the conversation, plus a printout on the general subject of Myanmar
that she found from a reference source online. “You want to talk about it now or
later?”
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He focuses hard, trying to recall the details, then crunches a stick of spearmint
into his mouth and looks at his watch. “Sure... watcha got?”
“Okay, so it’s pretty juicy. This Khin Mya is a woman who runs a hotel in the
capital city over there which is called Yangon... but I found out it used to be
called Rangoon and Myanmar used to be Burma, did you know that?”
“Yes, I knew that. Gimme the juice.”
“The juice... All right, the juice is that Evelyn Chadwick was there in Burma not
so long ago. I couldn’t get the exact date. Anyway, get this. While she was there, it
seems she had an affair with this woman’s brother, Kondanna.”
“The one who the letter says is now dead?”
“Right, but wait, it gets better. He was a monk at the time.”
“A monk? As in a Buddhist monk? Shaved head, orange robes?”
“Apparently. And I looked it up because I knew you’d ask... they’re supposed to
be celibate... the ones in Myanmar anyway.”
Ronald G’s eyes are starting to shine. It’s not often something like this arrives out
of the blue. Usually they have to go digging. “Better and better,” he says. “You
tape all this, by the way?”
“Yes,” she sighs, “I taped it.”
“Okay, go on. So how’d he die?”
“I’m getting to that if you’ll let me. The story was kind of hard to follow because
of her English, you know? But here it is, far as I can make out... Our lady Evelyn
went there with some people who were shooting a film.”
“That guy in the first story we ran? What was his name?” He snaps his fingers
trying to remember but it doesn’t come.
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“Adam Olmstead,” she says.
“Right, right. But wasn’t she supposed to be having an affair with him?”
“Who can say? All I know from this is that she arrived with the film crew but
didn’t leave with them.”
“Lovers’ spat?”
“Could be. Okay, so it seems this woman’s brother, the monk Kondanna, was
working with the film crew in some capacity, local contact or something, and
Evelyn asked him if he’d teach her Buddhism.”
“That’s a new one.”
“No, that bit’s true, I think. Anyways, she moves out of the fancy hotel and into
this little place the woman runs.”
“And that’s where she takes her lessons while he’s busy screwing her brains out.”
“Do you mind?” says Vicki. To her that sort of language is unnecessary. She can
handle swearing, in fact she even does some herself occasionally in this job, but
she refuses to put up with deliberate lewdness.
“Sorry, just getting into the spirit,” he replies.
“Am I telling this or are you?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“All right, so anyway, this goes on for, like, two months, give or take. Again, that’s
a little vague but what happens eventually, Evelyn has to leave the country.”
“Why?”
“Deported.”
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“Is that right? What for? Messing around with a monk?”
“I don’t know the reason. But the woman did say her cousin’s an army officer
and it was this guy who came to take Evelyn away.”
“Was she put in jail?”
“I don’t think so from the sound of it. My sense is she was just sent packing.”
“And her brother? What happened to him?”
“Okay, okay... So Evelyn gets taken to the airport and flies off to whoknows
where. They didn’t hurt her by the way, the woman’s sure of that because it was
her cousin. Anyways, it’s all hushed up and they think nobody’s any the wiser,
right?”
“All in the family.”
“Right... until the monastery finds out.”
“How’d they find out?”
“Well, it seems she has this guy who wanted to marry her.”
“Who, Evelyn?”
“No, the woman, Khin Mya. He’s a government guy, lots of connections.
Everything’s government there, did you know that? The drug trade, everything.”
“Yes, I knew that too. So what about this government guy? You have all their
names, by the way?”
“Most of them but I don’t know if they’re spelled right. I didn’t want to interrupt
her. I have to say she seemed... nervous... or emotional maybe, I don’t know.”
“Hey, her brother’s dead and she’s ratting out some bigshot Yankee. You’d be
nervous too. Keep going,” he tells her, “this is good stuff.”
234
“Okay, so this government person who wants to marry her gets rejected, right?
She wants nothing to do with him, can’t stand him and so on. So he says, you
either marry me or else I’ll expose your brother...”
“So she tells him to get lost, the guy squeals on her brother and the monastery
kicks the poor bastard out.”
“Basically.”
“So what now? He tries to take revenge ninja style and gets beheaded in the
process?”
“No, not exactly. What happens is that he hangs around the house or the hotel or
whatever... I’m not sure what kind of a place it is... But the way she tells it, he
mopes around, gets depressed, can’t find a job, all the usual symptoms... so he
commits suicide.”
“Just like that?”
“That’s how she told it to me. But she was pretty upset, I’ll say that. I’m sure
there was a whole lot of other stuff going on there, too, stuff she wasn’t telling
me.”
“Like what? Any idea?”
“It’s funny, I’m not sure about this, but my impression... and it’s only an
impression...”
“Okay, an impression.”
“Well, I have a feeling he actually loved her.”
“Who loved who? I’m getting lost here.”
“The woman’s brother, Kondanna, actually loved Evelyn.”
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“I doubt it.”
“Why? Just because she’s not your type?”
“Nothing to do with that,” he replies. “It’s just that, you know...”
“No, I don’t know. What?”
“He’s a celibate monk, for Christ’s sake. He may even be a virgin for all we know.
Now here’s this rich American, alone in a strange country... Gimme a break. She’s
ripe for the picking.”
“You’ve got a mind like a sewer.”
“Yeah? And what do you think this is? Romeo and Juliet?”
“It might be.”
“Sure,” he says cynically. “But you know what? Here’s another angle...”
“What’s that?”
“What if we’re both right? What if he really was the lovestruck innocent and
she’s the one pushed it? How about that? What if she was out there cruising and
he just came into her sights. How old was he?”
“I didn’t think to ask.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if he was younger? The naive young monk seduced by this
‘Mrs. Robinson’ woman. And after she gets deported... which is still a mystery,
incidentally. We need to find out about that. After she gets deported, he tries to
resume life in the monastery but they throw him out, so he’s left alone and
abandoned.”
“And heartbroken.”
“And heartbroken, right, so he ends it all by taking his own life. Tragic. What do
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you think?”
“Good story if it’s true.”
“Good story even if it’s not true. How’d he kill himself?”
“Jumped from a pagoda.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, they have this, like, giant pagoda there, all in gold... Wait a minute, I looked
it up...” She hunts through her notes. “The Shwee Da Gon...” She says it as if it’s
three words. “Something like that.”
“And he jumped from it? That’s just too good to be true. And this what’sher
name, this Khin Mya, she definitely blames Evelyn Chadwick for all this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not herself and not this guy she was supposed to marry?”
“She may be in denial.”
“She may be, at that.”
“It’s just that she did say at one point that Evelyn was a friend, which I didn’t
really understand too well... you know, from the context. She definitely used the
word ‘friend’ though, as if she knew what it meant.”
“But she still blames her.”
“Well, listen to it all yourself but to me there’s no doubt at all. That’s why she
sent the letter. She wants the world to know what happened to her brother. Well,
America, at least.”
“Okay, good stuff.” He sees her looking at him dubiously. “No, I’m serious, that’s
some nice detective work.”
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“You going to call her back?”
“Eventually.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means first I got a couple of other people to call. Okay, leave it all with me.
Hey, thanks again.”
“If it makes the front page, you owe me lunch.”
“You’re on. Wait, wait... How’d she get hold of us?”
“Oh right, I asked her that. What happened was, she was asking some tourists,
an American couple, if they’d heard of Evelyn Chadwick and one of them... I
think it was the woman... said she’d just read something about Evelyn Chadwick
in the paper before they left.”
“So she finds out who we are but not the address. I can buy that.”
“Or maybe she thought we’re so famous, it’ll just get here.”
“Yeah, how big can ‘America USA’ be, right?” He gets up from his chair. “You
know what? Think I’ll just run all this by David, let him know what’s coming
up.”
David Hale’s the Managing Editor and Vicki knows exactly what that’s all about.
It’s so Ronald G. Bream can lay full claim to the discovery in case word filters in
from elsewhere.
“Ask him what happened to my bonus while you’re in there,” she says.
“I’ll be sure to do that,” he replies, as he ambles off down the corridor.
“Sure you will,” she mutters to herself.
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• • •
Adam Olmstead’s mind is totally preoccupied as he wanders around his Toronto
office, throwing his accoutrements together at the last minute, as always. Raoul’s
booked them on the overnight flight which should get them into Paris by early
tomorrow, so they can get started without wasting any time. Reshoots normally
have to be sourced out of the contingency budget, which means expenses are
limited by definition.
He’s just about ready when he hears the muffled sound of his cellphone and has
to go hunting around all the pockets of his shoulder bag to find it. “Olmstead,”
he says simply.
“Yes, Mr. Olmstead... Ronald G. Bream, National Examiner.”
“You guys again?” This was the paper that printed the story about the secret
raging affair he was supposed to have had with Evelyn. In his own defense, he’s
not entirely certain how he’d describe a random onenightstand but “raging
affair” is definitely not it.
“Mr. Olmstead, before you hang up on me, perhaps you should know that I’m
not calling about your involvement with Ms. Chadwick. This is something else
entirely.”
“There is no involvement,” says Adam, probably sounding a little too insistent.
Yet it’s not a lie, he thinks, not if the man’s talking about a romantic involvement;
sexual maybe, but romantic never. Okay, it’s a bit Clintonesque and it probably
wouldn’t stand up at any congressional hearing but it’s justifiable nonetheless.
“Look, what’s this about? I’ve got a flight to catch.”
“This shouldn’t take long. Do you by any chance recall a trip to Myanmar about a
year or so ago? Could have been a little more.”
“Of course, I was shooting. Why do you ask?”
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“And you went there with Ms. Chadwick?”
“You just said...”
“What I said was that it’s not about your involvement. It is, however, about Ms.
Chadwick.”
“What about her?”
“She went there to study Buddhism, I understand?”
“So what?”
“And she stayed there about two months?”
“Something like that. What’s all this about?”
“Mr. Olmstead, are you aware that she had a certain liaison while she was out
there?”
Adam’s first reaction is outrage. It’s something about the way Bream says
“liaison” which makes it sound especially sleazy. “That sounds very unlikely,” he
says. “Who with?”
“With a Buddhist monk called... Kondanna.”
“Kondanna?”
“You obviously know him.”
“Sure I know him. He was one of our contacts with the Buddhist seminary. We
were filming there.”
It’s at this point that Raoul enters, demanding as usual the reason for the delay.
Adam responds by saying into the phone: “Hold on a moment.” Then he covers
the receiver with his palm. “National Examiner,” he tells Raoul and watches his
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partner’s eyes roll. “Yeah, I know,” he adds, “but the guy says that back in
Burma, Evelyn was having an affair with that monk, Kondanna.”
Raoul changes expression. “Evelyn and Kondanna?”
“I know, that was my reaction. But that’s what he’s saying.”
“And you believe it?”
Adam shrugs before getting back to Bream. “Neither my partner nor I know
anything about it. We both find it extremely unlikely...”
“Did you know he died?”
“Who died?”
“The monk, Kondanna.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” Adam looks at Raoul and mouths “Kondanna
died.”
Bream again: “And if I told you his sister’s blaming Evelyn Chadwick, what
would you say?”
“Blaming her? How? Why?”
“Apparently he committed suicide and his sister says it’s all Ms. Chadwick’s
fault. You know nothing about any of this?”
“No, nothing.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Look, I told you already...”
“An American woman alone... young, single, rich... Why is that so hard to
believe?”
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“Why? Because... Because it just is. She’s not like that.”
“She’s not?”
Adam’s maybe starting to have second thoughts but he doesn’t want to reveal it
and certainly not to Bream. “No, of course not,” he insists. But the mood Evelyn
was in back then, the melodrama when they were shooting at the Ministry, then
that onenight stand in Turkey... She was a little unpredictable to say the least.
Perhaps the whole thing is just possible after all. “You say his sister told you all
this?”
“That’s right. A lady called... let’s see here... Khin Mya.”
“Sure, she ran the hotel Ms. Chadwick moved into.”
“So you know her too?”
“No, can’t say as I do. I didn’t meet her, I just remember the name. What’s she
saying exactly?”
“Just what I said, Mr. Olmstead. What I’m looking for here is your response and
so far you’ve told me ‘it’s very unlikely.’ Is that what you want to stay with?”
“Stay with? Stay with?” Adam is starting to react badly, despite himself. “I don’t
want to stay with anything. My reaction is that it sounds very unlikely knowing
Ms. Chadwick.”
“Which you obviously do.”
“Now listen...”
“All right, all right, low shot, I apologize.”
“Have you confirmed any of this with Ms. Chadwick herself?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
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“Have you even spoken to her at all?”
“Like I said...”
“I got it, confidential. Was it you who wrote the previous story by the way?”
“No, that was someone else.”
“Well, look, whoever you are. I’m a journalist myself but I didn’t respond to that
story because it was a joke. Nobody believes you people anyway. But if you go
any further with any of this, then I’ll have to talk to our lawyers.”
“Are you getting upset with me, Mr. Olmstead?”
“Hey now, congratulations. I’d say you’ve got that one just about right.”
At this point, Adam notices Raoul gesturing him to calm down and he tries
consciously to do so. The last thing he wants is for them to say: “Mr. Olmstead, a
good friend of Ms. Chadwick, was very upset when he heard about the affair.”
He takes a breath. “All I’m getting upset about,” he says into the phone, “is your
tone of voice and your implicit accusations. I repeat... I think it’s very unlikely
that Ms. Chadwick would engage in such activity. Period. Over and out. End of
quote. Are we clear on that?”
“Unlikely, but not impossible, right?”
“You can twist it any whichway but the word is ‘unlikely’ and if you print
anything else, you’ve got a problem.”
“Mr. Olmstead, just so we’re clear, I’m in the business of presenting the news as
objectively as I can make it.”
“Sure you are. And I’m Steven Spielberg.”
There’s a pause. “Well, thanks for your time, I appreciate it.”
“Your name is Bream?”
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“Yes, indeed. Ronald G. Bream, Deputy News Editor, at your service. Thanks
again, Mr. Olmstead.”
The line goes dead and Adam curses softly. “I didn’t handle that too well, did I?”
he says to Raoul.
Raoul looks sympathetic. “You can never win with them. Okay, let’s go, we’re
late.”
Adam picks up his bags but he’s still thinking about it, still trying to get his head
around the idea of Evelyn and Kondanna. Is it even conceivable? She never said a
word about that, ever. And now Kondanna’s dead? That’s not likely to be made
up, it’s too easy to check. “I should call Evelyn,” he says.
“Do it from the car.”
• • •
Over on Long Island, Evelyn is also gathering her things together but she’s not
traveling across the Atlantic, she’s just walking over to a meeting in the main
conference room on the other side of the property; a planning session for her next
appearance, now firmly scheduled for Chicago’s Wrigley Field in just three
weeks. She’s about to leave the apartment when she hears her direct line and few
people have been given that number. From the tone it sounds like long distance.
“Hi, Evelyn, it’s me.”
“Adam! Where are you?”
“In a car with Raoul. We’re on our way to the airport.”
“Thanks for the flowers,” she says. She was morose about him not showing up at
Citi Field but he tried to make amends by sending her a huge bouquet and a card
that said “spellbinding,” which kind of took the edge off any possible rebuke she
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may have been considering.
“Were they nice?”
“Magnificent.”
“Listen Evelyn, I don’t have much time and something just came up. Has anyone
called you? A reporter?”
“No, why?”
“I have some news... I don’t know if it’s bad but I think so.”
“What kind of news?”
“You have a moment?”
She doesn’t but she says: “Yes, of course. What kind of news?”
“It’s about your monk friend, Kondanna.”
Evelyn feels a chill strike at her. “Yes? What about Kondanna?”
“I heard today... Well, I heard that he might have died.”
She doesn’t say anything for several seconds, then hears him call her name a
couple of times. Before she can reply, however, she has to find a chair and sit
down.
“Are you all right?” he’s asking her.
“Died how?”
“I don’t know if it’s true but I was told suicide.”
“Suicide? Kondanna? No, that’s impossible.”
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“You mean it’s not true?”
She doesn’t know how to respond. “Who told you this?” she asks.
“Some guy from the National Examiner.”
“I might have guessed.”
“I know, I know, my feelings too. Raoul’s trying to check it out just in case but
he’s having a hard time getting through to Yangon. I thought I’d better call you
anyway, before the guy does.”
She’s not sure what to say. It’s like her mind has come to a standstill. She knows
it’s just a tabloid and there may be nothing to it. She knows that but still...
“Evelyn?”
“Yes?”
“You okay? You want to call me back?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just... a shock.”
“I know, I’m sorry. The guy said he spoke to Kondanna’s sister, the one who ran
the hotel.”
“Khin Mya.” Visions of their quiet evenings appear in front of her eyes. She can’t
seem to adjust to any of this.
“He said she was the one who told him. But you don’t know anything about it,
right?”
“Nothing... I mean, why would he...” She doesn’t dare finish what she was about
to say because she’s afraid she may already know what the reply’s going to be.
“Should I call her? What do you think?”
“Who, his sister?”
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“Yes, Khin Mya. You think I should call her?”
“I don’t know, it’s up to you. Raoul’s trying to get through, see if we can check it
out with the seminary. You want us to call her as well? I think we’ve still got her
number somewhere.”
Her instinct is to say yes, let Raoul do it, Raoul takes care of things, but then she
changes her mind. She’s still thinking about that day she was deported and Khin
Mya’s face staring at her, just staring down from the balcony with no expression.
She loved Khin Mya like her own sister but now all she can think of is that face,
just staring at her. “No,” she says very softly, “I should do it myself.”
“Evelyn, look, we’re not even sure if it’s true yet.”
“I know, you’re right.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
All at once, she wants to ask him if he knows about her relationship with
Kondanna, what it meant to her and what it means now after all this time and if
he does know, she wants to ask him how he feels about it. She wants to know how
important it is to him, if it changes anything, but she doesn’t utter a word. It’s all
too mixed up, too confusing, as if some of her synapses are misfiring, a short
circuit in the causality. She tells her audience that the brain is the most complex
organism in the universe but that just means there’s more stuff in there to go
wrong.
“You want my advice?” This is Adam again, filling in when she doesn’t answer.
“If that creep calls from the paper, say nothing. Just hang up, okay? Don’t give
him the time of day.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t worry. If he prints something, we’ll get the lawyers onto it... anything,
no matter what.”
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“Yes, fine,” she says, drifting away again. She’s not concerned about lawyers. She
doesn’t even care what they print. That’s not what she’s worried about.
After she hangs up, she just sits there for a long time; she’s not even sure how
long. The meeting she was due to attend has long since been forgotten. From
where she is, she can see beyond the terrace to the ocean. It seems bright today
and she just gazes out until the sparkling light seems to break up the image like a
kaleidoscope in front of her eyes. She feels Shroedinger near her feet, but she
doesn’t pick him up or talk to him... not today, not now.
“Nai gawn te lah?” She’s remembering the words Khin Mya used to say as she put
her head around the door. It means how are you, to which Evelyn would reply
“Nai gawn ba dai.” I’m fine.
• • •
At the MingalahBah Hotel in Yangon, Khin Mya sits in the kitchen, across the
wooden table from the cook, Daw Thaung, but neither of them speaks. When she
sent the letter, Khin Mya was angry and frustrated. She wrote it in a rage and
mailed it fast before she could change her mind but then it took so long for any
reply, she’d forgotten all about it until that first woman called from the paper.
Since that time she’s had two more calls. There was another from the paper, a
man, and a second one just a few minutes ago from Evelyn herself, but she didn’t
answer either of them. She couldn’t. Each time she just passed the phone to Daw
Thaung who used the only words she knows in English, words that Khin Mya
taught her specially: “Khin Mya not here.”
The two women sit and look at each other. Both understand but neither of them
speaks.
• • •
248
Lester Shaughnessy is standing in line at the minimart, minding his own
business with his cart of bachelor groceries. Beyond is the tabloid rack in front of
the cashier’s booth with its usual array of garish covers, but it’s only when a
woman in front of him leans over to attend her whining infant that he happens to
catch sight of the Examiner and he stands there for a few seconds in disbelief.
It’s not the main story he’s staring at which is reserved for George Clooney, but a
large side panel with a blotchy shot of Evelyn’s face and a headline which
screams: “Exclusive! Evelyn And The Monk: Their Secret Affair, His Tragic
Suicide” He reaches forward, pulls out a copy and flips through the pages as he
shuffles forward in line. When he finds the story, he’s dismayed to see that it
stretches across most of the center spread and is accompanied by several pictures:
a wide shot of Evelyn in the spotlight at Citi Field; another of her opposite Jay
Leno on the set of the Tonight show; a small inset of her late father at his pulpit;
plus a separate file photo of an anonymous young man with a shaven head and a
saffroncolored robe with the caption: “A traditional Burmese monk.”
Before Lester can finish reading, he arrives at the counter but the moment he’s
through and on the sidewalk outside, he places his brown paper sack on the
asphalt so he can continue to the end of the story. It’s difficult to believe, any of it,
and he has to go through it a second time just to absorb it fully.
In truth, he’s not too sure what his emotion should be right now but the first
thing, he tells himself, is to be cautious. This is not the first scandal he’s been
faced with over the years, not by a long way, and while he doesn’t yet know if
there’s any substance to it, his experience with the tabloid press is that they’re
more careful these days due to too many megalawsuits. That still doesn’t
guarantee that the facts are true, it just means they probably have evidence, no
matter how spurious, to back up their claims.
He’s deep in thought as he stacks his groceries into the panniers of his Harley,
careful to balance the load. He’s well aware that in coping with a public relations
crisis, the hardest thing to overcome is the natural instinct to panic. On the
contrary, the first reaction must be a sense of calm to try and figure out the
complexities of the situation. The key, he tells himself, is to divide up the
component parts. First is to decide what this exposé might mean to Evelyn as the
primary victim, then what it might mean to himself and the organization, and
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only after that, what effect it will have on the rest of the world.
• • •
At sixthirty the following morning, Evelyn is still in her bathrobe when she
hears the buzzer. It could be anyone, from the janitorial staff to security, but it
turns out to be Lester, standing on her doorstep at this early hour, dangling a
tabloid newspaper in front of her face so that she can see the entire front cover.
She takes one glance at it and says: “Hi Lester.” Then she turns and goes back
into the kitchen to finish putting away dishes from the dishwasher.
“We have a staff to do that,” he says, following on behind her.
“I like doing chores,” she says without looking up. “Good for the soul. Want
some coffee?”
“No thanks.” He finds himself a seat and makes himself comfortable. “What I
want,” he says, placing the paper on the table in front of him, “is to talk about
this.”
She’s been expecting some kind of confrontation ever since Adam called: Lester
shocked at the headlines, the sudden arrival, the pounding criticism. “Okay, let’s
talk,” she says, but she doesn’t look at him. She just goes on stacking things away
in the cupboards. She made a meal for herself last night, which she’s been doing
more and more lately. She’s been reading more too and she’s also spent a lot of
time personally answering the email that’s been pouring in.
When she’s finished with the dishes, she finally turns to look at Lester but he’s
still just sitting there quietly by the table with his arms crossed. “I thought you
wanted to talk,” she says. Meanwhile the tabloid lies on the table between them
like a scarlet letter he’s about to pin on her. “Okay...” she says after a second or
two. “So I’ll talk instead. It’s all true. Is that what you want to know? They got the
attitude wrong because they’re a bunch of sleazebags but the basic facts are true.
So what do you think? Do I get a reduced sentence for my confession? Can I cut a
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deal with the district attorney?”
“I’m not here to convict you,” he tells her.
“You could have fooled me.”
“If it happened, it happened.”
“Think of it as an opportunity,” she says. “A chance for you and Mort to test your
spin talents.”
He glances up at her. “Why are you attacking me?”
“Because there’s nobody else here. Well, sure, there’s the cat but he’s heard it all
before. Look, you want me to say I’m sorry, I’ll say I’m sorry, all right?”
“I already told you...”
“I know, you’re not here to convict me, I heard you.” She doesn’t want to go on
with this so she wanders away once again, this time through the living room and
out onto the terrace. It’s mild today, just a hint of a breeze, but it feels good on her
face.
“How do you want to handle it?” says Lester, arriving beside her at the rail.
As he stands there next to her, she suddenly becomes very conscious of his age.
“Handle it?” she says. “In what way?”
“The staff, the media... It’s up to you. We can do something or we can do
nothing.”
“Will it make any difference either way?”
“It might.”
They each remain motionless for a minute or two while Evelyn tries to decide if
she can be bothered even discussing it. “Is it serious?”
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“I don’t know yet. To be honest, I don’t give a damn about the Examiner. It’s all
the other papers who’ll pick it up, starting tomorrow. That might hurt us.”
“And if it does, then what? Do we struggle on bravely or fold our tents?”
“Not exactly my decision,” he replies.
She looks at him but she too feels old today and she breathes in deeply, as if the
influx of fresh oxygen can rejuvenate her. “It was a beautiful thing,” she says
wistfully. “It wasn’t serious but it was beautiful. You know I tried to call his sister,
Khin Mya. We were very close but she wouldn’t take the phone. She wouldn’t
even speak to me so I still don’t really know...”
The sentence remains unfinished. She wants to say she doesn’t really know why
he did it, why he committed suicide, but all that emerges is an involuntary sigh,
which hardly describes what she’s going through. What else can she tell him?
What else can she tell herself? It was indeed beautiful: a very special, very
peaceful time in which the reality of her life just seemed to melt away.
She can’t recall the last time she cried about anything but the tears begin now,
pouring down her face as she stands there with no expression, not making a
sound. There’s no sobbing, no histrionics, just a gentle flow cascading down her
cheeks all the way to her chin.
Lester just stands there facing the ocean as if he’s not really too sure what to do,
then solves the dilemma by going off to fetch her a box of tissue from the
bathroom. When he returns, she thanks him and grabs a bunch to hold against
her face.
“Did they try to call you?” he asks her. “The people from the paper.”
“They tried.”
“But you didn’t speak to them.”
“I didn’t want to.”
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Lester nods, relieved. “Well, that’s something at least. You want me to handle it
from here?”
She shrugs but then relents. “Will you?”
“If you like... although I’m not sure there’s much we can do at this stage. We
should probably just wait and see what happens, see if there’s any major fallout.
The best we can hope for is a oneday wonder. The worst is if it spreads and
stains the brand. Might be worth some interval polling, monitor the damage over
time. Apart from that, I think we should just keep our heads down. We make no
statements, no appearances, give them nothing to feed on. With any luck, it might
just fade out on its own.”
There’s not much Evelyn can add. She’s out of her league with this kind of thing
and she just dabs at her face trying to mop up the mess. Several long seconds go
by until she eventually looks over at him and attempts a renewal. “My own
feeling, for what it’s worth...” It’s as if she’s trying to gather up some strength
from somewhere, to retrieve some of her inner conviction. “What I’m trying to
say is, I think we should keep going,” she says. “Don’t you?”
“You sure that’s what you want to do?”
“What’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is to throw in the towel.”
“Really?” she says. “Is that your recommendation?”
“No, but you asked for an alternative.”
“It’s just that... I mean, we’ve come this far.”
“Might get rough. People can say some nasty things.”
“I know.”
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He spends a few more seconds in contemplation, then with just a flick of his
eyebrows, he too seems to arrive at a resolution. “Onward Christian Soldiers,” he
says, recalling the old English hymn.
It’s meant to be a joke, the kind that Evelyn herself might have made not so long
ago, but it falls flat. She has no smile left in her.
254
16
“Violence is the rhetoric of the period.” José Ortega y Gasset
In Chicago, a driver by the name of Louis Zabal stands by the door of his white
stretch limousine and waits for his passengers. He’s an owneroperator, used to
dealing with celebrities, and in the past he’s carried such star names as Mick
Jagger, George Lucas, Madeleine Albright and many others when they were
visiting town.
Today it happens to be that woman he’s seen on TV, Evelyn Chadwick, and her
entourage. He’s also been reading about her in the papers recently, about all her
controversy and so on, but he never pays heed to any of that. To him, celebrities
live in their own world anyway. He never speaks or asks questions unless they’re
absolutely necessary because he knows how to deal with people like that.
Nonetheless, he was very interested in what this lady, Evelyn Chadwick, had to
say when she appeared over at Citi Field. A lot of it made sense to him and he’s
kind of curious to see her up close, to try to gauge what she’s really like.
• • •
At the end of her stadium performance at Wrigley Field, Evelyn is herded
towards the waiting limo by Lester and his assistant Gordo, flanked on each side
by Sarah and Wade, the private security detail. While Sarah joins them in the
spacious interior, Wade, the AfricanAmerican heavyweight, chooses to ride up
front for the drive over to O’Hare where the Learjet is waiting. Lester made the
decision to forgo a helicopter into the stadium this time since the airport is just a
halfhour drive across town but that just means more of a headache for local
police who have to get them out and away from the area while the dawdlers and
autograph seekers are still milling around.
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It takes some time to thread their way through but finally at the Ashland
intersection, Louis Zabal waves his thanks to the lone police outrider and the
limo continues westbound on Addison unescorted.
In the back, Lester is as pumped as he was after Citi Field and maybe even more
so. There were thirtyfour thousand this time, which at Wrigley means just a few
shy of a capacity crowd. Was it the scandal brought people in, he wonders, or
would there have been even more clamoring for tickets without it? He has no
way of knowing because the only guide is his polling which suggests that
support is holding steady and for Lester, that alone is a major achievement
considering the circumstances. For him it means that the core message is solid
and that people are prepared to put up with a certain amount of nonsense in
order to hear it. After all, if Billy Graham’s son Franklin could get away with it,
drinking and carousing every whichway before he finally straightened out and
took to the podium, then why shouldn’t it be the same for Evelyn’s little
escapade? It stands to reason. And besides, there’s no real hypocrisy involved,
not as far as Lester’s concerned. She makes no claim to any religious morality and
to all intents and purposes, she’s just another celebrity, albeit an extraordinary
one.
As for the lady herself, she came out tonight and, despite everything, handled
the show like a real trouper. She had them applauding and whistling and
laughing in all the right places. And now it’s all over, she’s emotionally drained
just like the last time, not even able to keep her eyes open.
• • •
Louis Zabal stays on Addison across the winding Chicago River and can already
see the JFK expressway up ahead.
Next to him, the big security guy, Wade, is playing with the radio, continually
pushing the “seek” button. Eventually he settles on a slow bluesy sound, which
appears to be his liking. “This your own vehicle?’ he says, gently nodding his
head in sync with the music.
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“That’s right,” replies Louis.
“You ever ride in it, like in the back?”
Louis shakes his head. “Can’t say’s I do.”
“That’s what I’d do, I owned a number like this. My day off, I’d pay somebody
just to drive me around in it so I could enjoy it for once.”
“Interesting idea,” says Louis, but it’s only to make conversation. He’s about to
add that few professional drivers would ever consider joyriding in their sole
means of revenue but before he can do so, a Toyota compact pulls out from a side
road directly ahead of him, causing him to jam on the brakes. “What the hell...”
It’s all he has time to say.
A moment later, a scarred van, old and bulky, appears alongside and rams the
limousine’s offside wing with some force, forcing it into the curb. In the back, the
sudden swerve propels Lester sideways and he falls heavily on top of Evelyn.
Almost immediately, the van’s front doors slide back and two figures emerge,
dark from head to toe in ski masks, tracksuits and trainers.
Up front, Wade is the first to see that they’re carrying weapons and his
immediate reflex is to begin banging his big fist on the glass separator and
yelling: “Get down, get down!” But the sound is muffled and his warning is
drowned out by a burst of automatic fire. The rear windows shatter and the first
to be hit is Gordo, a series of holes in a line across his body splattering his blood
on the floor, across the seats, and all over Sarah too.
Wade has no time to think, he just reacts, pushing his door open and launching
himself out onto the street; but his sudden exit means the first gunman now has
to turn his attention to Wade’s hurtling bulk or be crushed where he stands. He
doesn’t make it in time and they both go down, a tangle of bodies collapsing
heavily on the pavement.
That’s when the other security guard, Sarah, finally pulls herself together from
the initial shock. She stretches across Gordo’s prone body towards the door
handle but the move just makes her an open target for the second assailant,
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who’s still firing at will and she’s the next to go down as the metallic spray fills
the space, its noise crashing and ricocheting around the panels. Large splinters of
plastic and glass shower the interior, together with splashes of human tissue,
bone fragments and thick red slime.
Up to now, the driver, Louis Zabal, has been sitting behind his wheel with his
eyes glazed, frozen in time, the fear of his youth in Beirut during the Civil War
like an instant replay all around him: the sounds and sights and even the acrid
smell of greased gun barrels all returning like phantoms to taunt his senses. He
doesn’t know what to do. He never carries an illegal firearm like some of the
other drivers: not being on regular street duty, he’s never felt the need.
Instinctively though, he knows that if he stays where he is, he’ll be a sitting target
just like those in the back, so he opens up his own door. It’s not much, just a few
inches, but it’s enough to cause some anxiety in the second gunman who’s
already seen his partner go down. He fires one burst towards the door which
catches Louis in the arm, then evidently decides it’s in his best interests to break
off the attack.
As Louis clutches his wound and watches, the blackclad figure helps extricate
his partner from under the limp form of Wade and bundle him towards the same
small Toyota that blocked the limousine’s path in the first place. Once they’re
inside, they waste no time. Rubber screams on asphalt as the whiny compact
accelerates away past some witness traffic that doesn’t want to get involved, then
turns a corner and is gone.
And in a moment everything is quiet, all except for the blues music still playing
on the radio and the low groans of someone in the back who’s still alive. Louis
looks around at the carnage, dazed, as he holds his bloody arm and forces
himself to think. It takes a few seconds but eventually he remembers the cell
phone in his jacket pocket and reaches in for it with his good hand.
• • •
It takes just over fourteen minutes for the UCAN medical helicopter to arrive, the
blades reflecting light from the street lamps as the machine settles down onto the
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street. Two cruisers are already on the scene and a ground ambulance can be
heard half a mile away trying to find its way through. The officers have their
hands full trying to wave in the chopper, seal the crime scene and handle the
passing traffic all at the same time.
The most senior cop present is a sergeant and he makes it his priority to get the
help to the victims. “Three dead,” he’s shouting as he greets the senior medic,
“plus three more wounded and in shock. This one here’s a thigh, lost some blood,
the one in the car’s a shoulder and hip, and the guy sitting over there, it’s just his
arm... Looks like they didn’t have time to finish the job.”
The medic nods in response and begins to issue orders to his own crew. “Just
take the survivors,” he calls at one point. “Leave the rest for the bus.”
Within six minutes, the three wounded are on board and strapped in as the
sergeant tells one of the younger officers: “Go with them.”
“Not necessary,” says the senior medic.
“It is when one of them’s a suspect.”
“Which one?”
“I’m thinking the driver.” Then for clarification, he adds: “The arm wound.”
Once they’re all inside and the door’s been slammed shut, the pilot makes his
final visual scan for overhead wires or other obstructions and takes the machine
up slowly, cautiously, into the night. Not until he’s well clear of the roofline does
he bank over and accelerate rapidly away towards the south.
• • •
Evelyn opens her eyes in a white room and thinks immediately of her sanctum at
the property until she realizes that the solitary figure near the foot of the bed is a
uniformed nurse. She’s a heavyset woman with a capable manner about her,
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perhaps a little older than Evelyn. She has brown hair, almost the same color as
Adam’s, but she wears it pulled back and tidy.
“Nice to see you’re awake,” says the nurse, looking up from her notes.
Evelyn’s mouth is dry and she’s still very drowsy but she can’t feel anything
except the bulk of bandage wrapped around lower body and up towards one
shoulder. The padding is very heavy. She tries to speak but can’t work up enough
saliva to make the words come out.
“Just relax,” says the nurse coming over to help her with a sip of water from the
tumbler. “You’re at the University hospital and my name’s Kathleen Delgado.
You were involved in an incident, an attack of some kind. Does that ring a bell?”
Evelyn tries to nod.
“Good... that’s good you remember. You were very lucky. You took a bullet in
your hip and another in your shoulder. Both gave us problems, I’m afraid, but
you came through and the doctor’s very pleased.”
“I can’t feel...”
“No, that’s natural. That’s just the painkillers but everything’s still there. A bit
knocked around,” she smiles, “but still there.”
“How long...”
“You’ve been here two days. But you were in surgery for ten hours, so we have to
give it some time.”
The nurse seems very kind but she leaves before Evelyn’s had a chance to get her
head around what she really wants to know and a long minute goes by before the
woman returns.
“Who...” says Evelyn, trying hard. “Who...”
“It’s all right, it’s all right... The doctor’s just outside and the police will be here
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soon. They can answer all your questions.”
“Lester...”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Lester Shaugh...” It’s like the rest of his name refuses to form itself in her mouth.
A woman enters, much shorter than the nurse, with Asian features and a white
coat that’s so long it has to be turned up at the sleeves. “Well, well, look who’s
awake,” she says cheerily. “Hi, I’m Dr. Yeung. You gave us a scare for a while
there.”
“Please... Lester Shaugh...” says Evelyn, trying again, but it’s no use. She just can’t
get it out and the effort tires her.
It’s Nurse Delgado who tries to help: “I think she’s asking about her friend but
we have no record of a Lester Shaw.”
The doctor, however, is too busy to concern herself with such matters and she’s
already taken the nurse’s clipboard to check the data. “No, well, the police are on
their way,” she says to Evelyn. “As soon as we’re done here, you can ask all the
questions you want. First things first. Did the nurse explain what happened?”
It’s the nurse who replies again. “I told her there were two entry points.”
“That’s right and we were very fortunate with both of them.” While the doctor
speaks, she scans the array of machines to which Evelyn is hooked up, checking
the cathode displays against her charts. Then she adjusts the drip on the
intravenous tube that’s attached to Evelyn’s arm. The needle is held there by pink
tape. “One bullet was in your hip, damaged the bone I’m afraid, but it was a
relatively clean entry and we’ve managed to do some reconstruction. There’s a
pin in there. You should be able to walk all right but you may need
physiotherapy. The other was more of a problem because it went into your
shoulder at a strange angle, then burrowed downwards and fragmented. We had
to go hunting around for all the tiny pieces but I believe we got them all and the
Xrays seem to confirm that. Nurse?”
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This is a request to fold back the sheets for an examination, so Evelyn just closes
her eyes and waits for it to be over. Whatever kind of painkillers they gave her
seem to be working because she doesn’t feel a thing until a gentle hand on her
good shoulder stirs her awake. The doctor and the nurse are both still with her.
“Good,” the doctor says to her. “Very good. Coming along fine.”
She gives Evelyn a reassuring smile, then steps away with the nurse and they
continue talking near the doorway. Evelyn can’t hear what they’re saying but she
notices for the first time that the sunlight coming through the window blinds
seems strong and realizes it must be a nice day outside. When the whispered
discussion is finished, the doctor leaves and the nurse comes back over.
“The police are here,” she says. “Feel up to seeing them?”
Evelyn nods again. The simple action is about all she has the strength to do.
“Lots of other people too,” says the nurse. “But the police want to see you first.
Don’t worry, I’ll see they don’t stay too long.”
A minute later she’s back, accompanied by two men of average shape and size.
One has a dark suit, the other gray. It’s the dark suit who speaks.
“Morning, Ms. Chadwick, how you doing today? I’m Agent Stiefel, this is Agent
Hurley. We’re with the FBI, attached to the Chicago Terrorist Task Force. We need
to ask you some questions, that all right? We’ll try not to take too long.”
He says this last part for the benefit of Nurse Delgado, who acknowledges by
looking at her watch and leaving them to it. When she’s gone, it’s Hurley who
goes over and quietly shuts the door.
“Lester Shaughnessy...” says Evelyn again, finally getting her mouth around the
full name.
The two men look at each other before Stiefel draws up a chair to sit down.
Hurley remains standing but it’s Stiefel who continues to do all the talking.
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“Ma’am, I don’t know how much you’ve been told...”
Evelyn just shakes her head and tries to shrug, as if to say that she’s been told
nothing at all.
“All right, fine.” He takes out his notebook. “Well, the news is not too good, I’m
afraid. Those surviving the attack were a Wade Anthony Udell and a Louis
Claude Zabal. Those who didn’t make it were... Sarah Anne Pasternak, Gordon
Michael Travis and the gentleman you mentioned, Hiram Lester Shaughnessy.”
Evelyn just closes her eyes tightly.
“You all right, ma’am? We’re very sorry for your loss... but we’re going to have to
ask you a few questions, all right? Would that be all right?”
She’s doesn’t want to talk, she just wants them to leave. Lester dead? How can
that be? Lester? It’s not possible. Lester?
“Ms. Chadwick?” says Stiefel again. “Do you know all these people? Let’s take
them one at a time. You just nod to say yes, all right? Wade Udell?”
She nods.
“Right, he was on your security staff?”
She nods again.
“Louis Zabal?”
This time she shakes her head.
“He was the driver. You didn’t know him? Never used his service before?”
She shakes her head a second time.
“How about Gordon Travis? Also on your staff? Good,” he says after her
response. “Sarah Pasternak... she was security, right? Thank you. And finally
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Hiram Shaughnessy...”
“Lester,” she says, correcting him.
“What’s that?”
“Lester...” For some reason it’s important that he get the name right. “We called
him Lester.” Hiram was a name he disliked and never used.
“I see, all right, and this Lester Shaughnessy, he was what? Some kind of
manager for you?”
“Partner,” she says.
“Good, thank you, he was your partner. Now, your office says you received some
threats.”
“A few.”
“And these didn’t bother anyone?”
“Sure...” She tries to reach for the water but she can’t seem to move her limbs, so
the man standing, Hurley, steps over to do it for her, holding the glass near her
mouth so she can drink. He has large fingers but well manicured nails, she
notices, as if he has them done professionally. “Sure,” she repeats, feeling a little
better. The water helps. “That’s why we had security.”
“Which was an outside service?” says Stiefel. “They weren’t on staff?”
“No,” she replies, but she still has questions of her own. “Lester... He was next to
me. How...”
“How did it happen? Well, why don’t you try and tell us what you remember?
Just take it slowly.”
She tries but she can’t seem to focus. “Nothing.”
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“You mean you lost your memory?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You remember making your speech in the stadium?”
She nods. Yes, she remembers that and some of it comes back to her now. She
liked the crowd. The crowd was good.
“You remember getting in the car after the speech?”
She thinks about it, then nods again. “I was in the back... with Lester, Gordo and,
and... what’shername...”
“You’re referring to Sarah Pasternak?” A nod from Evelyn. “How about the other
man, Wade Udell?”
“Wade was in front... with the driver.” She’s able to speak a little better now.
“Fine, now what do you remember after that? You’re in the car...”
She has to concentrate. “I think... I fell asleep. Then we swerved, it was very
sudden. Lester fell, kind of sideways.”
“On top of you.”
“Yes.”
“Was there gunfire at that time?”
She tries to recall and gradually, piece by tiny piece, it starts to come back to her
the gunfire, the shower of glass and the noise, the terrible noise. “Yes, gunfire,”
she says. “It broke the windows.”
“Anything else? You remember anything else?”
“I was underneath. Pain, I felt pain... I don’t know...”
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“All right,” says Stiefel. “That’s fine. That’s just about what we figured. Far as we
can make it out, it seems Mr. Shaughnessy being thrown like that may have saved
your life. What happened, he was found kind of sprawled over you, took maybe
four bullets, one of which lodged near his heart and killed him. One of the bullets
you took hit you cleanly but we think the other went through him to get to you.
That was the one in your shoulder. The other two people in back, Travis and the
woman, Pasternak, died in the general hail of fire, although we think she may
have been trying to get out. Udell apparently tackled one of the assailants and
took two bullets for his trouble. Looks like he’s going to be all right though. And
Zabal, the driver, he got a stray one in the arm. You say you don’t know him?”
“No.”
“You know where he’s from? When he came to this country?”
“No... I told you.”
“I see, just asking. Now, Ms. Chadwick... Our working assumption is that you
were the main target. Would you agree with that?”
She tries to shrug but she can’t feel anything.
“Most of the threats received were against you, isn’t that right?”
Even in the state she’s in, that sounds to Evelyn like a stupid question. Who else
would the threats be against? “Yes,” she says, because it’s just easier to answer
like that.
“Is there any one threat in particular that concerned you?
She shakes her head, although it brings back all those hours she spent going
through the messages. Some of them were hate mail, she knows that, and some
were from zealots of various religions but there was nothing that was specific
enough to take action and anyway, it was all handed over to the security service,
which was in contact with the authorities whenever it was deemed necessary.
She really didn’t get too involved with that side of things.
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Stiefel again. “Is there something you noticed, anything at all, that you may not
have mentioned?”
Again, she shakes her head.
“I see. Fine. Do you have any connection with the Middle East at all, Ms.
Chadwick?”
“What?”
“The Middle East? Any connection?”
She doesn’t like the switch and she doesn’t fully understand.
“The Middle East?” she repeats.
“Yes ma’am, this is important.”
“No.”
“You got no letters from the Middle East, no email?”
She tries to think. “Some maybe. I don’t know.”
“Nothing you recall in particular?”
“No.”
“We received permission to access your organization files from...” He looks to his
colleague who checks through a few pages of his notebook.
“Irving,” says Hurley. “Joel Irving.”
“Right, from Mr. Irving, but we’ll need to review your private logs too. Would
that be okay? Can you authorize that?”
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“Of course.”
“Any password we should know?”
“Ask Joel... Joel has all that.”
“Thank you. Now I understand you visited that part of the world not so long
ago... specifically Istanbul, Turkey, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why was that?”
“Vacation.”
“You didn’t meet anyone there?”
“I met friends. They were filming.”
“And who would that be?”
“Adam... and Raoul.”
“Adam? That would be Mr. Olmstead I assume,” says Stiefel. “Right, we spoke to
him earlier.”
“Adam? Adam’s here?”
“Lots of people are here, Ms. Chadwick. Lots of visitors, lots of media... Who’s
Raoul?”
“They work together. Can I see him? Adam?”
“All in good time. What’s his family name, this Raoul?”
She thinks hard. That’s something she should know but it won’t come. “I don’t
remember.”
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“How about his nationality?”
“He lives in Canada... like Adam.”
“Is he also a citizen of that country?”
She has to think hard for that one. “I don’t know. I think he grew up in Puerto
Rico.”
“Puerto Rico? I see, all right. Who else did you meet in Turkey?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody at all? You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even talk to anyone?”
“Hotel people, airport people, I don’t know.”
“Did anyone issue any threats while you were there?”
“No.”
“Or take offense?”
“Offense?”
“For anything you might have said.”
“No.”
“How about more recently? Anyone you met there who might object to
something you said more recently... in your speeches for example?”
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“No, I didn’t meet anyone. I told you.”
“You were also deported from the nation of Myanmar, am I right? That was
during the same trip.”
A hesitation now as she remembers... First Kondanna and now Lester... She can’t
do any more of this. She just wants to see Adam.
“Ms. Chadwick? Ma’am? You were deported?”
“Yes.”
“And why was that?”
She doesn’t know. To this day, she doesn’t know the true reason except for all that
stuff in the article.
“There was a letter sent to the National Examiner newspaper,” says Stiefel. “From
Myanmar. You know the woman who sent that?”
“Khin Mya.”
“And what she wrote in the letter. It was true? You had something to do with her
brother’s death?”
“No.”
“She says you did.”
“No.”
“So the letter’s wrong? What she says is wrong?”
“He was alive... When I left, he was alive. I had to leave...”
“Because you were being deported.”
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“Yes.”
“So what they’re claiming in the newspaper. That’s the true version? That he
committed suicide?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, I see. Did you have an involvement with this man?”
She nods a yes to this. “He was my teacher.”
“What I meant... did you also have a personal relationship? To be specific, a
sexual relationship?”
Another nod. No point lying about it.
“I see. So that part of the article is correct.”
“Yes.”
“Did he, to your knowledge, have anything to do with the drug trade?”
She looks at him like he’s a fool. “He was a monk.”
“Yes, so I understand. Can you answer the question please? The drug trade?
Narcotics? Heroin? Cultivation of poppies? Anything like that.”
“No.”
“How about his sister, this Khin Mya who wrote the letter?”
“No... I don’t know.”
“So she might have done.”
“I didn’t say that.”
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“Did either of them profess to the Muslim faith?”
“No, Buddhist. He was a Buddhist monk.”
“But there are Muslims in Myanmar?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nobody ever talked or mentioned anything about either drugs or Muslims to
you while you were there. No conversations, references...”
“No.”
He looks at her for what seems like a long time, as if he’s trying to sum it all up
just from her face. “So let me be honest with you here, if I may, Ms. Chadwick.
We seem to have several theories going at present and all of them stem from you.
One is that it’s some kind of Muslim terrorism, either from the Middle East or
some other location, and the motive here would be, like I said, because of the
nature of your speeches.”
“I don’t make any direct accusations.”
“No, not direct, but you do say you’re against religion, right? So people, shall we
say, of a religious nature, might be inclined to take offense, wouldn’t you say?”
How can she answer a question like that? In a way, it’s true.
“All right, another of our theories is that the attack was some form of personal
vendetta... perhaps for what happened in Myanmar. The letter to the paper
seemed to suggest it was your fault. Was it your fault, Ms. Chadwick, what
happened to the monk?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“Right, you don’t know. You left before it happened. But I’m sure you can see
how that might be a valid theory from our pointofview. Also, of course, there’s
the possibility that the two theories I mentioned are even linked in some way.
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There are, or have been, Muslim terrorist cells in the nation of Myanmar, but you
say you know nothing of that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Or, of course, it might be none of the above. Is there any other theory you can
think of, Ms. Chadwick? Any other reason someone might want to harm you?”
“No, I... I just want to help people.”
“I understand. You have the best of intentions. Yet the fact is you were attacked.
Do you regard yourself as a naive person, Ms. Chadwick?”
She doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“All right, so we have these theories and like I say, we have to follow all of them,
so what I want to ask you is this... If you were me... I know it sounds strange, but
bear with me... If you were me, which lead would you be following?”
This is ridiculous to her, like a child’s game, and she doesn’t feel like playing
anymore. She refuses to speak and instead just closes her eyes. If they think she’s
tired and has to sleep, perhaps they’ll go away.
“Ms. Chadwick?” says Agent Stiefel. “Can you hear me?”
She doesn’t move and she hears him say: “Get the nurse.” Then no more until
another voice, a female voice, says: “I’m sorry, that’s enough for now. You’ll have
to come back.” Good ol’ Delgado, she thinks, but she continues to lie there with
her eyes closed. She feels the nurse’s cool hands on her face, then on her pulse,
checking everything. Then a more abrupt tone: “I said you’ll have to come back.”
• • •
Evelyn hears the agents leave but then finds she doesn’t even want to open her
eyes. Instead she sinks into a state of semiperception with fragments of the
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moment in the car replaying like the horror videos she used to rent out at the
Princeton store. Lester’s crashing down on top of her, suffocating her, and all she
can see now is a grotesque glimpse of Sarah opposite, her face frozen, her eyes
still wide and that dark ooze bubbling up from her mouth. Then Lester goes limp
and it’s just a brief second before she feels the searing pain, once in her hip, then
again as her shoulder burns... and then nothing... nothing at all after that.
She tries clenching her eyelids together but the images won’t leave. She can feel
the fear and the tension and, overlaying it all, the shame, the wrenching guilt of
survival. How does she have the temerity to be alive when she was the one who
caused all that destruction? They asked her if it was her fault, the police, but it’s
always been her fault. It was her fault that her mother was abused, her fault that
her father was angry, her fault he had a heart attack at the Ministry, her fault she
became an outcast at Princeton and yes, it was her fault that Kondanna died. And
now... and now Lester? That’s her fault too. But how can Lester be dead? How
can he be dead when she can still see him there in front of her? They said he took
four bullets but how can that be? That’s when the noise returns, sudden and
fierce, deafening in its intensity, until she can’t take it any more and cries out for
it to stop.
• • •
“Can I see Adam? There’s a man outside... Can I see him?”
Nurse Kathleen Delgado looks from her charts to her patient. “Is he related to
you?”
“A friend, a close friend.”
The nurse looks dubious, then gives Evelyn a girltogirl wink. “Let me see what I
can do.”
A minute or so later, a familiar face appears at the door and Evelyn can’t believe
it. A rush comes to her, a feeling of instant relief, deflating the pressurized
supernova in her head and collapsing it into a dwarf star.
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“Hey, about time,” he says. “I’ve only been waiting two days. Joel’s here too, you
want to see him? He’s got a sack full of mail, looks like Santa Claus. Oh and your
old pal Stephie was here, hung around for hours but she had to fly back, felt bad
about it.”
Evelyn tries to smile, actually surprised that people can even find it in them to
care about her after all she’s done, but in truth she only wants to see Adam.
That’s about all she can take right now and as he comes over, she reaches out to
him, gripping his shirtsleeves with as much strength as she can find, just to bring
him down close to her, just to hold him. And that’s when it starts, the tears
welling up from deep inside her. She’s never cried in her life and now it’s twice in
a matter of weeks. She knows she’s soaking the front of his shirt but she doesn’t
care. Kondanna’s dead and Lester’s dead but Adam’s here and she’s holding him
and she’s not going to let go, because if she does, he might go away and die too.
• • •
Louis Zabal’s wound was also treated at the University hospital but it wasn’t
serious and he wasn’t admitted. The bullet passed clean through and it looked
and felt a lot worse than it really was. Once he was released from ER, he was
taken by heavily guarded convoy to the Bureau’s Chicago field office at the
Federal building on South Dearborn and placed in a holding cell, where he’s now
been sitting for over seventy hours.
He’s had ongoing medical treatment, he’s been fed and he’s been questioned
extensively by five different people but he’s not been formally charged and he’s
had no access to legal services. He doesn’t even know if his family’s been
informed because nobody will tell him, despite his repeated requests. Nor does
he know what evidence they’ve got against him because they won’t tell him that
either. As far as he can make out, all they’ve really got is that he was the driver of
the car and he’s an immigrant from Lebanon.
At five in the morning, a big, balding man in a creased shirt brings him coffee in
a paper cup. Louis has seen him before. His name is Farber and his official title
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appears to be Assistant Special Agent In Charge.
“Drink that,” says the man, “you’re going home.”
“You mean I’m free? You’re letting me go?”
“What I said.”
“Am I still a suspect?”
Farber stares at him but doesn’t answer the question. He turns to leave but Louis
calls after him.
“I asked you if I’m still a suspect.”
“I’m not deaf,” says Farber, but then leaves anyway.
Louis sniffs at his coffee before sipping at it and wonders yet again how they can
do this. He’s a victim, not a terrorist; and his family is Christian by religion, not
even Muslim. Sure he’s free to go, he thinks to himself, but he’s got no limousine
left and maybe no business either. Who’s going to trust him when their
background checks reveal he spent three days in an FBI jail cell being questioned
by the Terrorist Task Force? Will Mick Jagger trust him? George Lucas?
Madeleine Albright? Will anyone ever trust him again?
• • •
When Evelyn wakes up, it’s light outside. There are high piles of cards and notes
on the bedside table as well as on the sill, plus another big pile on a cart they had
to wheel in. There are poems and children’s drawings and even some flags on
little sticks. There’d be flowers too, dozens of bouquets, but the hospital frowns
on those around patients – something about the oxygen supply – so they’ve been
put on display down in the lobby.
She gazes around at all this before her eyes alight on Adam who’s still there, still
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wearing the same shirt. He’s half asleep in a chair but when he sees her looking
at him, he lifts his hand and gives her a wave that makes her smile.
“You look like hell,” she says to him.
He rubs his neck and tries to swivel his head in big circles. “Not the most
comfortable night I ever spent,” he replies. “You slept well though. You were
snoring.”
She gazes at him a long time, her mind a mass of confusion the show, the
exhaustion, those numbing few seconds in the car with the gunfire and the
blood. The flashes of memory are there but she can’t seem to work out the
chronology for any of it. She was dreaming too and she’s not entirely sure of the
difference between perception and reality. “Adam?”
He looks back at her.
“It all happened, didn’t it?” she says. “Lester’s dead.”
“Yes... he’s dead.”
“And the others?”
“The others? Well, your security man seems to be on the mend.”
“Wade, yes, I remember. And Gordo, what about Gordo? How’s he doing?”
“No, Evelyn... he died too.”
“Gordo died?” She blinks for a moment. “That’s right... and Sarah too, that was
her name wasn’t it? Sarah...”
“Sarah Pasternak. Yes, she died too.”
“Who else? Was there anybody else?”
“The driver guy, but I don’t know what happened to him.”
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“How about Joel?”
“No... Joel wasn’t there. You saw him yesterday, remember?”
That’s right, she thinks. Of course Joel wasn’t there. Of course not. Joel brought in
all the mail. It’s starting to come back. “Did they have the funerals yet?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“I should go.”
“Whoa, whoa... I’m not sure you’re going anywhere for a while.”
She puts her head back and breathes out. “Why?” she asks.
“Why? Because you’ve got a pin in your hip.”
“No, no... I mean why?” She can move her arms and her hands but the rest of her
body still feels numb, so she makes an effort to concentrate, furrowing her brow
to try and gain some focus. “Why any of it?”
“The police think it’s an Islamic thing,” Adam tells her. “They’re wondering if it’s
some kind of death sentence, like they passed on that Rushdie guy for
blasphemy... ‘The Satanic Verses,’ remember that? The mullahs called it a fatwa.”
“Do you think I’m blasphemous?” she asks him. She’s talking about her stage
presentation but somewhere in the back of her mind there’s a glimmer of
memory for that dinner they had with Jesse Eberhardt when she badmouthed
the Bible and everything it stands for. “Don’t answer that,” she says, somewhat
belatedly. The fact is that it’s true. Religious blasphemy, scientific heresy it’s all
in a day’s work for Evelyn Chadwick. “What did you tell them, the police?”
“Not much.”
“I mean about us, about our night.”
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“Nothing, how about you?”
“No.” Then she says “Thank you... for not telling them.” That’s when she feels the
tears welling up again. This time she tries to fight them, tries hard to prevent
them, but she loses the battle and they flow anyway. “It’s all my fault, everything.
I do things, I hurt people...”
“Come on, you know better than that.”
“No... people die, Adam. They suffer and they die because of me. What if it really
is my fault?”
It’s as if she can’t seem to get the word “fault” out of her head. It just hangs there,
pointing at her, accusing her; and behind it is a real fear which says that her “EC”
thesis might indeed be wellfounded and that the death which seems to follow
her actually emanates from the quantum actions of her own brain. If so, then it
really did all happen because of her. It was nothing less than a projection of her
own subconscious and she shakes her head at the frightening responsibility.
And conversely, that’s the secret of God, she thinks. If bad things happen, it can’t
be our fault because it’s all part of God’s plan. We either follow or we’re led
astray but in either case, God’s the one who decides the final outcome. It’s God
who metes out the justice.
“You know what my father would have called it, this attack?” she says now to
Adam. “Divine retribution.”
“Oh, I think that’s a little extreme...”
“No, that’s what he would’ve said, I’m telling you. Divine retribution. He’d have
told me I’m being punished. He would have said I walked away from God and
this is the result. I can hear him now... ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’” It’s
all becoming too much for her and all at once she feels unable to cope. She’s been
fighting so long she’s not even sure what it’s about anymore and she closes her
eyes, suddenly very tired. “Adam?” she says quietly. She reaches out for his hand.
He leans forward in his chair. “I’m right here.”
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“Is Shroedinger all right? Just tell me.”
“As far as I know, Shroedinger’s fine.”
She nods, content just to hear that, as she disappears back into sleep.
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17
“Revolution begins with the self.” Toni Cade Bambara
The day she’s due to leave, Evelyn is sitting in the wheelchair waiting for hospital
security to finalize her departure details when Agent Stiefel reappears, this time
alone. He taps on the open door but then walks in anyway.
“Sorry to disturb you like this, Ms. Chadwick,” he says as sits down. “Just a few
more questions, if that’s all right. It’s just that there’s been a development and
we’d like your input.”
“What kind of development?”
“Ever been to Wyoming, Ms. Chadwick?”
“No.”
“Have any connections there? Friends, relatives, acquaintances?”
“Not as far I know.”
“No one at all?”
“No, why? What’s all this about?”
Stiefel looks at her as if trying to decide how much to say. “A radio station in
Wyoming received an audio tape last night. There was a male voice on it claiming
responsibility for the assault on behalf of his group.”
“Really? What kind of group?”
“They don’t go by any specific name but in their literature, they call themselves
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survivalists, liberators... various descriptors.”
She has to think about that. “So what are you telling me? That the people who
did it are American, is that what you’re saying?”
“We’re not saying anything yet, ma’am.”
“But you were asking me about... about Turkey and Burma...”
“Yes, ma’am, but like I say, we’re not jumping to any conclusions yet, we’re just
making inquiries.”
“But why would they... this group... I mean, why me?”
“You can’t think of any reason?”
“No... none.”
Once again he gives her the long blank stare. “According to the tape,” he says,
“the motivation appears to come from your speech after all, the way we
originally thought. Only not from the religion side. From the other side, the
science.”
“The science?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ms. Chadwick, I’m no expert in these matters but what they seem to be
suggesting is that if a human being can use his brain to control the world like you
talk about in your speech...”
“The cosmos,” she says correcting him, but he ignores it.
“What they’re claiming is that if that’s the case, then the government can use the
same thing in reverse, whatever it is, to control the population.”
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“What? That’s nonsense. It’s worse than nonsense, it’s ridiculous...”
“Ridiculous or not, that’s what’s on the tape.”
“Then it’s a joke, it has to be.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t sound like one to us.”
“Have you arrested anyone?”
“We only received the tape ourselves as of this morning. Like I said, it was sent to
a radio station in the city of Casper, Wyoming, who passed it on to us. Once
again, you’ve never been to that part of the world?”
“I was in Colorado one time for a seminar but that’s about it.”
“I see, and you didn’t think to mention this when I asked you earlier?”
“You specifically said Wyoming.”
He doesn’t respond to that, he just sits back in his chair as if trying to decide
what to ask next.
“So you think they’re the ones?” she says.
“I couldn’t say, ma’am. I just wanted to get your reaction.”
“My reaction is I can’t believe it.”
“Are you saying it’s not possible?”
“How do you mean?”
“For your theory to work like that. Is there any substance to it?”
How can she answer a question like that? This is conspiracy theory gone haywire
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and he’s asking her if there’s any substance to it? The government using EC
causality to control the population? She has no idea what to tell him. “I never
thought about it,” she says.
“And if you were to think about it?”
She just shrugs as best she can.
“I see, all right. One more thing if you don’t mind. Have you had any connection
with any government agency regarding this?”
“What, the tape?”
“No, ma’am, I’m referring to your work. Have you ever been in contact with any
agency or department about it?”
“No, it was all done at Princeton.”
“There was no government involvement of any kind? Federal? State?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Not as far as you know? Does that mean there might have been?”
It seems to be his practised methodology to seize on everything if it’s not an
absolute yes or no. “What I mean,” she says, “is that nobody spoke to me about it
and since I was leading the research, I think they probably would’ve done, don’t
you?”
“How about funding, that sort of thing? Any outside sources? Any grants or
sponsorships?”
“You should talk to Princeton.”
“Yes ma’am, we will. Any government visitors on the campus? Anyone you may
have spoken to about your work?”
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“No, I told you. And what kind of questions are these anyway? You people are
the government, aren’t you?”
“Just asking the question.”
“You mean you all have to check up on each other, is that the idea? Left hand
doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing?” The moment she says it, she regrets
it, a flash of the old Evelyn starting to seep through, an Evelyn she hoped she’d
outgrown. She knows the man’s just trying to do his job but she just wishes he’d
do it without that constant, underlying suspicion in his voice.
“How about other governments?” he’s saying.
“No,” she says, controlling herself. “No governments, domestic or foreign.”
“Corporations? Organizations?”
“Nobody.”
“You explained your work to nobody at all, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. It was written up in the papers for goodness
sake. A review in the New York Times. It’s public knowledge. It’s even on my own
website.”
“I’m talking about at the school.”
“At the school, it was available to anyone who was interested... My associates,
some of the graduate students... and the review committee, of course.”
“This review committee... It’s a formal arrangement, I take it. Could they have
passed anything along? Perhaps in some official capacity?”
Her mind can’t help conjuring up a vision of the department heads, Martin
Nieves and his cohorts, and she realizes it’s been some time since she thought of
them. “I don’t know,” she says, “you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
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He waits a while, then nods and gets to his feet. “All right, well I won’t keep you
any longer. We appreciate your help. You’re going back to Long Island today?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Fine, we’ll be in touch. If you plan to go anywhere else, please let us know.”
That’s not a polite request, it’s more like an official order, and it’s a depressing
thought. What it means is that if they ever indict these people, there’ll no doubt
be any number of hearings, depositions, trial appearances, cross examinations...
and all with exactly the same kind of wooden questions that can make normal
behavior with normal motivations seem totally stupid. She understands it’s
necessary, wheels of justice and so on, and she really wants to help convict them
whoever they are, but as she watches him leave she can’t help wondering how
many times she’ll have to go through it all again, with the media drooling on
every last word. Proceedings like this can last for months.
• • •
She sits in the room alone for a few minutes, almost like she’s been forgotten, but
then Kathleen Delgado shows up. They’ve become old friends.
“So how we doing this morning?” she says brightly. “All set?”
Evelyn’s pleased to see her but her mind is still thinking about the conversation
she just had and she just sits there in a haze as the nurse fusses around, checking
whatever remains of the equipment, disconnecting wires from wall sockets and
tidying it all up for removal.
The surprise for Evelyn is not that there are people out there who genuinely
believe all that government conspiracy stuff, it’s that they’d invert her message
like that and then conceive such an assault. The planning and preparations must
have been extraordinary. But then she rebukes herself for being so naive... Do you
regard yourself as a naive person, Ms. Chadwick? In this era of McVeigh and bin
Laden, a couple of gunmen on the street can hardly be considered a big deal
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anymore. The attack may have been aimed at her personally but in a broader
perspective, it’s just another event on the nightly news, just one more item
inserted amongst all the rest.
The nurse breaks into her thoughts.
“Well now, where’s that man of yours?” she says. “Would have thought he’d be
here today, carry you off home.”
It’s only after a moment that it dawns on Evelyn who she’s talking about. “You
mean Adam?” She’s about to reply “He’s not my man” but for some reason she
can’t bring herself to say the words. “He’s in Europe,” she says.
“Seems like a real charmer. My advice? You find a good one, you hold on to him,
believe me. Take it from someone who knows.”
There seems to be a world of experience behind such wisdom but Evelyn doesn’t
want to pry; and anyway, as she knows all too well from her own past, some
things are best left unsaid.
• • •
By the time hospital security finally arrives, Evelyn is more than ready to leave.
As she’s wheeled along the hospital corridors, she calls out her goodbyes to the
staff before being joined in the ground floor lobby by the everserious Joel Irving,
as well as the mountainous Wade Udell who’s still strapped up but more than
capable of moving by himself. When they emerge, it’s into a bright, cool day,
fresh from a rainstorm. The pavement is still wet in patches.
Of course, they could have gone straight up to the roof and taken a chopper or,
alternatively, descended directly into the basement garage. Either would have
been preferable in terms of security but Evelyn insisted on staging a media
session outside the main doors and she’s happy enough to greet the small posse
waiting for her with their cameras and their microphones. Ideally, she’d like to
have stood up, to try to balance herself on her newly acquired set of crutches, but
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she was advised against it and Joel in particular asked her to be sensible about
things.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announces, “thank you for coming.” She looks
around for Wade, gesturing for him to walk forward and join her even though
he’s a little shy to do so. “First I’d like to introduce you to a genuine hero, Mr.
Wade Udell... Without his quick reflexes and his selfless bravery, it could have
been even worse than it was.” She pauses to give him a broad smile, then turns
back to the cameras. “On behalf of both of us, I’d like to say that our hearts go out
to the families of the victims of this terrible crime. They were very special people,
each one of them and... and we’re going to miss them.”
She can’t seem to prevent her thoughts from straying back to Lester and she can
feel the moisture already returning to her eyes. She decides she’d better move on
before she’s unable to do so. From Joel she takes a printed sheet with all the
names on it and slowly she begins to go through the list of everyone she wants to
acknowledge: the police department, the helicopter crew, the medical staff, the
hospital security and finally the hundreds of people she doesn’t know who sent
greetings and flowers and who wished her well.
She’s no sooner finished than the media questions come at her from every angle,
about the attack, about the tape and even one about Adam. But she’s in no shape
to take any of them so she just offers a brief wave, then hands the session over to
Wade to let him bask in the glory a little and as she’s escorted away, he’s
besieged. By the time he’s able to join them, her wheelchair has already been
raised by an automatic platform into the specially modified minivan and they’re
ready to head out once again for O’Hare, this time accompanied all the way by a
sizeable police escort. Nobody’s taking any chances this time.
Neither Joel nor Wade are especially talkative on the journey back, but the
somber mood does at least free Evelyn to dwell on her own thoughts as they
mingle and merge through the threat of religion and the fear of science until they
finally settle in on her own personal, private irony a man she doesn’t have but
who she’s supposed to hold on to.
• • •
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Evelyn is more than glad to get back to the property but without Lester, it’s just
not the same, not unlike the feeling in the old house after her father died. Of
course, the two can’t possibly be compared, yet each structure was an inherent
extension of the man who created it and in that sense alone, this place here,
stunning as it is, has become for Evelyn just another empty mausoleum.
Most of the remaining staff has already been laid off, so apart from Greta and the
security patrols, Evelyn finds it eerily quiet. She’s been receiving the occasional
visitors, including her girlfriend, Stephie, who was kind enough to look after the
cat all this time, as well as the gracious Mort Kerstler, and even Jesse Eberhardt
came out to see her; but no amount of activity can replace the hum of what used
to be a regular working day.
Then one blustery day around noon, just as she’s doing her best with a dish of
Greta’s pasta, front gate security calls to tell her that the guest she’s been
expecting has finally arrived. Offering her excuses to Greta, she leaves the food
on the table and steers her motorized chair out from the kitchen and along the
corridors, all the way over to the building’s main entrance where she left her
crutches. By the time he arrives, she’s up on her feet waiting for him.
“Hey, look at you,” says Adam as he gets out of his rented vehicle and comes over
to give her a hug. “Your shoulder doesn’t hurt with these things?”
“Hurts like hell... but I wanted to show off.”
“What does your physio say?”
“She says I’m too impatient.”
“Really? And why would that be, I wonder?”
She transfers thankfully back to the chair, then leads him along to her private
residence in the east side of the building. Her entrance hall is still filled with
flowers, cards and framed drawings, just like her room at the hospital, and Adam
dumps his bags down so he can just stand for a moment and gaze around.
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He’s never actually been here before and he offers an expression that says he’s
highly impressed. Straight ahead of him is the large, openplan living room with
floortoceiling glass doors that open on to the balcony and its expansive view of
the ocean. Immediately to his right, the passage leads to a big kitchen while, to
the left, another links up with her den and continues all the way to the staircase
where Joel had a small, oneseat elevator installed around the banister. “My
welcome home gift,” she tells him.
“Where’s the cat?”
“Out somewhere... hunting, beachcombing, womanizing... Yesterday he brought
me a dead sandpiper.”
“Doesn’t he know you’re vegetarian?”
They find their way out to the broad terrace and Adam is glad to breathe the
ozone after so many hours on a plane; but the winds are roaring in today,
whipping the waves into a froth, and after a couple of minutes they decide to
retreat inside.
“You eaten?” she asks him. “Greta’s still here if you like.”
“Nah, I’m fine.” He touches his stomach with his fist as if there’s something not
sitting right. “Airline food,” he says as he sinks into one of the soft chairs. “I think
I’m getting too old for all this.”
“Not you,” she says. “You’re Peter Pan.”
The expression makes him smile. “D’you know that when I was a kid, that was
one of my favorite bedtime stories?” Then he changes his mind. “Actually that’s
not true, I hated it, but my sister liked it so I had to suffer. The one I always
wanted was ‘Twenty thousand leagues under the sea.’”
“Jules Verne.”
“You read it?”
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“Sure, all those guys. Verne, Wells, Huxley...”
“I thought girls hated that stuff.”
“Not girl scientists.”
“Remember that part when they’re attacked by the giant squid? I used to love
that part. I always wanted to be Captain Nemo when I grew up... or even Captain
Hook. Anything but Peter Pan, he was such a wuss.”
“Lived forever though.”
“True,” he smiles. Then he looks at her. “How you doing?” he says.
“I’m doing all right.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“Had many visitors?”
“A few,” she says and proceeds to bring him up to date with all the news and the
anecdotes. Then the cheeriness disappears and she becomes much quieter. “You
know who else came? Some of the families... Sarah’s parents, Gordo’s people...
His brother’s in the army, flew all the way from his base in Korea. I’m not even
sure why they all came.”
“Just to meet you probably, or maybe to see the place. I would imagine it’s like a
kind of a pilgrimage... what they call a sense of closure.”
“I guess,” she replies, thinking about it. “There was someone else too,” she says,
“a woman called Iris who was apparently dating Lester at the time. I didn’t know
anything about that, he kept it to himself. She’s from around here somewhere, a
lawyer or something like that. I don’t know how serious they were but I think she
really liked him. She came and she sat in that chair right where you’re sitting.”
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“What did you say?”
“Not a lot... what could I tell her? And she said even less. She just sat there, you
know? It was difficult, the way we both just sat there without saying anything.”
Her voice fades as she recalls the pain of that afternoon. The sense of catastrophe,
of sheer needless waste, was overwhelming.
“Evelyn?”
She hears his voice and brings herself back. This drifting off is an old failing she
never really lost. “I’m sorry,” she says, “you must be totally wiped. You want to
take a nap or a shower or something? There’s a room ready.”
“I was thinking maybe we should talk.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“I meant about something specific. Well, a couple of things actually.”
She looks across at him, obviously curious, but his eyes can hardly stay open and
she comes to a decision that whatever it is can wait. “Later,” she tells him firmly
and then, without giving him a chance to argue the matter, she leads him back to
where he dropped his bags and along to the staircase at the other end of the
apartment. With some difficulty she transfers herself to the minielevator,
refusing all offers of help, and when she reaches the top, she shifts herself over
into another wheelchair. The effort visibly tires her.
“Your shoulder’s never going to heal like that,” he says, following her up on foot.
“My physio told me to exercise it.”
“And did she also explain the difference between normal exercise and Olympic
training?”
She knows he’s right and her only reply is a grunt as she takes him through to
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the guest suite. “This okay?” she says.
It’s a pleasant, airy room, decorated minimally like the rest of the place and
complete with bathroom “ensuite,” as the real estate ads would say. The view
here, like the living room directly below, gives out onto the seafront with the
beach stretching away into the distance on both sides. Once he’s stowed his bags
into a corner, he kicks off his shoes and collapses onto the kingsize bed.
“Perfect,” he sighs, as he lays his head back on the feathered pillow.
“Towels and stuff in the bathroom,” she tells him, but he doesn’t respond so she
just turns quietly and wheels her way out.
• • •
The sun’s already setting into a bank of crimsonedged clouds when Adam finds
Evelyn in her kitchen with Joel. They’re sitting at the table with some scattered
papers and a newly opened bottle of wine, obviously deep in discussion.
“Sorry,” he says when he realizes he’s interrupting.
“No problem,” says Joel, reaching out to shake Adam’s hand. “How’s it going?”
“Better after a nap. How about yourself?”
“Yeah... you know.”
It’s Evelyn who says “Mind if we just finish up here? Won’t be long. Help
yourself to some wine.”
Adam pours himself a glass and heads through to the living room, content just to
stare out at the steadily darkening hues and think of nothing. Twenty minutes or
so later, he waves goodbye to Joel from across the room and waits for Evelyn to
steer her way over. “Some location,” he says to her.
“Yes, well enjoy it while you can. I don’t think we’re going to be here for much
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longer.”
“Was that what your meeting was about? I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, no... Joel and I meet a couple of times a day. Then he dashes around doing
all the work while I just sit here like the Queen of Sheba.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” Her smile has some wistfulness about it. “The problem seems to
be that we’re burning through cash.”
Adam raises his eyebrows. “That can certainly be a problem,” he agrees. “So the
plan is to sell the place? Must be worth a buck or two.”
“Sure it is, to the bank. If you really want to know the truth, it was all just smoke
and mirrors anyway, this whole operation.”
“How do you mean?”
“This entire endeavor. The Humanity Gospel. It was all just Lester, he held it all
together.”
“What about the income?”
“Income? What income? We’re not the Ministry. No corporate sponsors here.
And since we’re not registered as a religion, voluntary contributors can’t even
claim tax relief. How much do you think that brings in?”
“Okay, I understand all that... but what about the media rights, the gate receipts?
What about all those CD’s and DVD’s you sell? There must be some kind of
revenue stream.”
“Sure, but it’s dwindling fast... and it’s nothing compared to our expenses. I
mean, security alone right now...” She comes to a halt, wondering whether to go
on, but it doesn’t seem to matter much anymore. “You know, when that tabloid
thing hit us,” she says, “Lester held teleconferences every day to reassure the
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investors. He told them the publicity would only help and you know what? They
bought it. They trusted him, even though he himself didn’t really know for sure.
He was the kind of person who just seemed to inspire confidence, you know?
With that quiet way he had about him. Then when we pulled in that big crowd at
Wrigley, hell, he was more amazed than anyone. All those promises he made had
actually come true.” She manages something of a smile but then converts it into a
pained sigh. “And you know why he did it?”
“Why’s that?”
“For me.”
“Not just for you, I’m sure.”
“No, you’re right. Partly it was just to prove that he could. But a lot of it was
because he believed in me.”
“We all believed in you, Evelyn. We still do.”
She stares at him for some time without saying anything but she can’t seem to
maintain the eye contact and she turns her head away.
“What will you do?” he asks her.
“The old cliché... one day at a time. The staff’s mostly gone and we’ve axed much
of the outsourcing too. The vehicles have been sold, the chopper’s back with the
leasing company... so the last thing’s the property.”
“What then?”
“We start eating cat food.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously? We’re not sure. Joel’s a good manager but as he says himself, he’s not
Lester. He doesn’t have the experience or the contacts and he certainly doesn’t
have the same credibility with the money men.”
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“How about if you line up some more shows?”
“I don’t know. We thought about it but I’m not sure it would work. Citi Field was
good, the networks were all bidding, but after the scandal they weren’t interested
anymore. Even with the crowd at Wrigley, we hardly broke even.” She opens up
into one of her more cynical smiles. “Without Lester, you know what this is?
Nothing more than an expensive hobby.”
“But you have other means of support. I’m talking about you, personally.”
“I’ve still got most of my father’s illgotten gains, if that’s what you mean. I’m not
exactly out on the street. But that’s not the real problem...” It’s almost like she’s
reluctant to discuss it. “The truth is... Well, we put up my share of the Ministry as
collateral and if they want to foreclose...” She offers a slight shake of her head. “I
can’t do that to Jesse,” she says softly. “Don’t ask me why, I just can’t.”
Adam doesn’t react to that, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t
even begin to probe such depths so he decides to leave it alone, just lean back and
finish his wine. He’s sympathetic to all of her problems and he’s willing to admit
they may be a little worse than he thought but none of it really comes as any
great surprise. As a matter of fact, it merely confirms everything he and Raoul
suspected.
“You want to hear another idea?” he says. This seems to be as good a time as any.
“Another idea? Is this what you wanted to talk about?”
“Kind of.” He sees her looking at him now, which makes him feel uneasy. He
doesn’t want to screw this up. “I don’t really know where to start. It’s something
we’ve been thinking about.”
“We?”
“Raoul and me.” He gets up and ambles over to the glass doors, deep in thought.
“The show’s doing all right,” he says, “in fact more than all right, but the
network’s cutting back and we figured it’s just a matter of time before we’re hit,
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so we had to come up with a contingency plan. Raoul likes the security of a
series... Okay, me too if it comes to that... but creatively I’d like to get back to
doing documentaries. A series is like... like a factory, in a way, a production line.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the plan we came up with is to expand, to
extend the franchise.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“We want to do other series like this one.”
“But won’t that just tie you down even more?”
“No, on the contrary. We’ve kind of got ‘Faith Vision’ down pat now. I’ve got
three crews on board, good kids who do a good job, so I could work on other
things if I really wanted to. Plus there’s another issue... I’m talking about
Harriet.” He smiles, almost apologetically. “As you know, she’s our main client
and has been for as long as we’ve been in business. She’s wonderful, loyal to a
fault, but to be brutally honest I’m not sure how long she’s going to be around.
She was sick again recently and I’ve a feeling she’ll be retiring soon... so that’s
another reason we need a plan. Are you following any of this?”
“Sure I am. Go on.”
“Okay, so our idea is to become a fullfledged series producer with a number of
shows. That way we don’t have to rely on just one client. More diversification
means more security... and more freedom too. Raoul and I will take on executive
roles, which means we’ll be able to find time to do more of what we want to do.”
“Sounds good. Think you can do it?”
“I think we need to give it a try.”
“What other shows would you do?”
“Ah, well now, that’s where it gets interesting. One obvious extension to what
we’re doing is ‘Science Vision,’ right? Total nobrainer. But then there’s this other
concept we came up with... and the idea came from you... ‘Humanity Vision.’”
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“Really?” She seems too confused to be flattered. ”What kind of show would it
be?”
“We don’t know yet. We don’t have a format. It could be whatever you want it to
be.”
She stares at him, her expression incredulous. “Whatever I want it to be?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. It’s yours. Do what you want with it.”
“Are you serious? I don’t know what to say.”
“You could even have the science show too if you want, I mean it’s not like you
don’t have the qualifications...”
“No... thanks all the same.”
“Okay, whatever. But think of the other one... ‘Humanity Vision.’ It’s a big
concept... the power of humanity. That lets you do just about anything you want
and the beauty of it is, it’s all set to go, all the ingredients are there... our own
success with ‘Faith Vision’ multiplied by that famous Chadwick star power...”
“Will you stop.”
“And of course, the most important thing of all, your own readymade audience.
It’s incredible, the numbers are already built in from the getgo... which means
you get to keep all the friends out there you’ve already made.”
“You think?” Evelyn seems overwhelmed. “It sounds great, I mean, really...”
“But?”
“But a TV show? I don’t know anything about TV.”
“No, but we do.”
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She attempts a smile but it doesn't really work. “I’m sorry,” she says “it’s just too
much, you know, all at once.”
“That’s okay.”
“How about Joel?”
“Are you kidding? A guy like that? Raoul’s just drooling at the thought of having
Joel around. A good manager means he can get back to what he likes best, which
is producing. It’d be like a gift.”
“You seem to have it all worked out.”
He looks at her, then turns and gazes out towards a threequarter moon that
seems to have risen out of nowhere. “No, actually, I don’t,” he replies. “Not
entirely.” In fact, there’s a lot more he wants to say but he’s not sure whether to
do so because it has nothing to do with the business at hand. Is this the time, he’s
wondering? Is this the moment? Yet he can’t bring himself to say it, to speak the
words out loud. It’s like there’s a blockage he can’t seem to unplug.
“You want to talk about us?” she says.
The pointblank question seems to destroy any sense of subtlety he might have
been considering. Trust Evelyn to come straight out with it. Either she’s blunt as a
hammer or so nuanced that he can hardly read her.
“Something like that,” he answers, and suddenly he feels like he has no choice
anymore, that he’s going to have to come clean or back off altogether, which he
promised himself he wouldn’t do. “But I don’t want you to think... What I mean
is, one thing has nothing to do with the other, they’re totally separate...” In his
mind, he can hear Harriet scoffing at his attempts to explain himself: “Stop
gibbering, Adam.” And he can also hear his sister, Gwen, the pragmatist: “Stop
procrastinating, Adam.” This is hard for him though, extremely hard. He’d prefer
to go out on a dozen sugary dates than ask one woman he actually cares about to
come live with him and that’s always been his problem. “There’s plenty of
space,” he says, trying to overcome objections even before they arise, “or we
could just sell my condo and buy a house near the lakefront. It’s not the ocean
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but you can’t see the other side...”
She looks at him, unsure for the moment whether she’s really hearing him
correctly. “Are you asking me to move in with you?” she says.
“Didn’t I say that?”
“Not in as many words.”
“Well, okay, that’s the gist of it, yes.”
“Really? You’re sure about that?”
“Yes... yes, I’m sure. I mean, I’m positive.”
“You have any idea how much trouble I can be to live with?”
He manages a halfsmile. “I’m not exactly easy myself,” he replies, but the offer
he made was neither casual nor flippant and he doesn’t want to give that
impression. “You don’t have to answer immediately,” he says, and that causes a
thoughtful silence between them, broken only when the cat appears just outside
on the terrace looking fat and glossy and very pleased with himself. “Hey,
Shroedinger,” says Adam, sliding the door back to let him in. “Long time no see.”
The cat rubs his back on the wheel of Evelyn’s chair but she can’t seem to take her
eyes away from Adam. It’s as if she’s fixated.
• • •
Dinner turns out to be a simple affair, a Chinesestyle stirfry that Greta had
already preprepared in the wok. And afterwards, after they’ve finished what’s
left of the wine and they’ve exhausted discussion about the new series, they find
some cognac that had been Lester’s special treat and they raise a toast to the
departed.
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“Let’s hope that if there’s a next dimension, it’s better than this one,” says Evelyn
softly, a delicately neutral wish on behalf of the victims that can be interpreted in
terms of either religion or science.
Slowly they sip their way through much of that bottle too, so it’s not until after
midnight that Adam lifts her onto her bed and at her silent invitation, lies down
next to her, the two of them still fully clothed. The winds have subsided, the
window is open and for a long time they just listen to the rhythmic rush of the
Atlantic tides. Evelyn’s hip still won’t allow her any intimate activity, much as
she’d like to, so she moves very close to him and clasps his hand like she did in
the hospital and that’s how they fall asleep.
Adam dreams, as he so often does, his mind still creating even when it’s turned
off, but Evelyn once again has nightmares, her neural pathways filled with
images of savagery and destruction and the litany of deaths she may have
caused. And in her oblivion, the extreme gravity of the black hole sucks her
down below the event horizon where Einstein’s spacetime gives way to the
quantum world and nothing ever escapes. This is the essence of the eternal, the
original source, the Genesis singularity, and what it’s telling her is that even if the
day comes that we’re in control of the universe, even if humanity succeeds in
becoming its own God, our mortal guilt will always be there like a lurking anti
Christ, waiting to undermine our psyche, lying in ambush to massacre our
confidence and plague our souls.
And that’s when she wakes with a start, apprehensive in the enveloping darkness
until she realizes that Adam is next to her. She can feel his warmth and hear his
gentle breathing and, for the moment, she's content.
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ICON © LEON BERGER
All rights reserved. All feedback welcome: www.meleonberger@ yahoo.ca
Two more free, fulllength novels by LEON BERGER published on this site:
I/D
By merely extending current trends, the future takes shape as a dangerous,
paranoid place. This is the story of an ordinary young man who's labeled a
fugitive when he becomes the victim of identity theft.
HORSE
The bittersweet chronicle of an eccentric work horse who finally gains his
freedom. Inspired by a true story.
Five novels by LEON BERGER published in book form, available online at amazon or
chaptersindigo:
GLOBO SAPIENS
The prophetic story of the most globalized man on Earth. He has mixed
parentage, competing religions, he grew up on various continents and has a
global career. Is this how all of mankind will end up?
THE WAR CRIMINAL
An aging Nazi, still at large and still living off the grid, must face down his own
demons when faced with an outbreak of neoNazism.
TABLOID TRASH
An entertaining murder mystery. When a tabloid journalist is killed at his own
retirement party in a mob casino, the immediate suspects include the eccentric
weirdos he wrote about so scathingly.
THE BERLIN DOSSIER
A highly researched espionage thriller. Set in prewar Berlin, this is the evocative
story of how an expat freelance hack becomes involved in vicious Nazi intrigue to
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determine who will be named Hitler's successor.
THE KREMLIN BETRAYAL
A sequel to The Berlin Dossier, this is set in Cold War Europe when the same
protagonist is drawn into the reallife conspiracy to assassinate Stalin.
www.lberger.ca
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