The old
ones had grand and glorious machines. They inhabited glittering
cities of light. They loved to fly (seemingly so dangerous to us).
They could fly across oceans. Their sailing vessels filled the skies.
They mapped the stars and sent men into space—but they went mad and
destroyed themselves. We are their offspring. Faint traces of the old
world can still be seen in our world, in ruins and refuse not yet
been reclaimed by nature. We do not know what lies beyond our shores.
Our seafaring vessels are not capable of traversing the globe. Over
many generations our people have engaged in battles but nothing like
the great wars of the past. We live a peaceful existence. We feel
blessed. We share a common language with the old world, with our
ancestors; even so, many of their words seem foreign to us and are
difficult to decipher. The old ones were capable of great magic. They
were able to record and transmit images of themselves across great
distances. This art has now been lost. We do have transcripts of
these talking pictures along with faded photographs, ragged books and
other deteriorating volumes archived in makeshift libraries. Sadly,
the largest of these libraries recently burned. This is why we have
decided to compile and distill from the existing archives a few
stories that moved us. We are thinking of future generations, that
there will be a record not just of sacred texts (stories of sky gods
and virgin births), of poets and philosophers and of visionaries and
prophets but we wish to produce (using the archives and literary
techniques discovered in the books of the old ones) a glimpse into
this ancient civilization before death and the whirlwind overtook
them.
A WHITE HORSE
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a
dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe
What
were the figures? Rouan asked himself. He had to get them right, then
he would be believed. And once believed, released. Freedom, he could
think of nothing else. A free man, after all, can walk out at night
and gaze up at the moon and the stars, but he could not. For him, the
moon and the stars no longer existed. Time existed. The Earth
existed. But the moon and the stars had been blotted out, lost. Even
so he preferred to stay up and write at night when most everyone was
asleep. Since it was winter, he huddled beneath a green blanket with
just his hands and forearms exposed to the cold air. For light, he
used a small battery-operated reading lamp clipped to the top of a
legal pad. He made notes in longhand and wrote using the stub of a
pencil. When the lead broke, he peeled away the wood with his
fingernails and sharpened the tip on the wall or the floor of his
cell.
To
assure maximum effect the bomb would have to be detonated from a
height of about one thousand feet possibly in the belly of a small
aircraft. After the blast, human skin would burn from even a mile
away. Buildings within the radius of a football field would vanish.
Vaporized. And just beyond that flying debris and death by
asphyxiation. What would the causalities be in Los Angeles, New York,
London or even Washington DC?
I
must hurry, Rouan thought, morning prayers will soon begin.
During
the day prayer rugs were set down. Over half the inmates in the Santé
were Muslims originally coming from Pakistan, Tunisia, Algeria, West
Africa and Morocco, in the last generation or two. Prayers were said
throughout Block C five times daily. Many of the inmates studied the
Koran. Most of this activity was clandestine; it was not approved of
by the prison authorities; catholic chaplains were made available but
very few imams were officially sanctioned and made available to the
prison population. Located just south of the Sorbonne on the Left
Bank, the poets Paul Verlaine and Apollinaire had once been
incarcerated behind its towering walls as had members of the French
resistance during the second World War. It now housed the assassin,
Carlos the Jackal, and an assortment of thugs, petty thieves,
murderers, rapists, psychopaths and even transvestites. This was not
what Rouan's fellow countryman in the United States imagined when
they thought of visiting Paris. It would be hard for them to picture
what life was like in that graying fortress, built in the nineteenth
century and designed more like a castle than a prison with its
turrets and oval passageways. But after one became more familiar with
it—and with its rats, moldy bread, lice, bed bugs and depravity—it
began to feel more like the prison that it truly was.
Rouan
was handsome. But his eyes contained a deep sadness and weariness.
Since he was of North African descent and spoke Arabic, he was placed
in block C with the other North Africans. He shared a cramped cell
with Abdullah and Karim. Abdullah, a large ugly man slept in the bunk
above him. Karim (thin and effeminate, with the physical frame of a
child) was consigned to the bottom bunk across from them. Karim was
the latest arrival after being transferred from the tier below,
replacing two others who had recently been released. They all shared
the same toilet and ate in the cell. They had just a tiny sink in
which to bathe and brush their teeth and were allowed only two
showers per week in the communal shower three tiers below. They were
permitted a maximum of four hours a day outside their cell, and from
five-thirty in the evening until eight in the morning were confined
to it.
Karim
had been watching Rouan intently from his bunk for some time. But
Rouan ignored him in the hope that he would go to sleep. But it was
clear that Karim was wide awake and would not sleep. He watched Rouan
like a cat, his eyes flashing in the dark. Rouan found it unnerving.
Finally,
he glanced in Karim's direction and Karim took this as an invitation
to speak: “Robert, are you working on your novel?”
“Sh,
you’ll wake him up.” Rouan put his index finger to his lips and
pointed up towards Abdullah in the bunk above.
“Nothing
can wake him, he’s stoned.”
“How?
Where did he get the drugs?”
“Don’t
be so naive,” Karim smirked.
“But
how did the drugs get in here? How could they get past the guards?”
“The
guards,” Karim shook his head and laughed.
“They
are the ones who brought the drugs in. No one else could.”
“Well
I’m finished with all that. I’ve had enough of drugs.”
“Are
you going to the library today?”
“Yes.”
“Can
you help me with my case today?”
“Sorry,
not today.”
Rouan
had helped Karim with his research of French law (Karim had been
charged with possession of heroin and was facing a long stay in
prison after having been convicted of the same offense in the past).
“But
why, will you be busy with your novel?”
“I’m
seeing my new lawyer. Let’s talk about this later.”
“Read
to me something from your novel.” Karim sat up and looked directly
at Rouan like a child trying to get the attention of a self-absorbed
parent.
Rouan
felt there was something false about Karim, something not quite
right. He felt Karim was playacting, putting on some kind of show,
and not just with Rouan. Rouan had observed Karim interacting with
the other inmates. Karim wore a mask of innocence, of open
friendship, but Rouan knew that Karim was hiding something. Rouan was
well aware that behind that mask, Karim could be quite cunning. Karim
was like a baby shark with razor sharp teeth.
“I’m
not finished with it, Karim. It’s not ready. I still have a lot of
work to do on it,” Rouan replied.
“Maybe
I can make some suggestions. Maybe I can help.”
“No,
you can’t help me with this.”
“Are
you embarrassed by what you are writing?”
“No.”
“Then
why won’t you show it to me?”
“Come
on, Karim. Lay off.”
“I’m
just saying. Is it a secret? Do you have a secret, Robert?”
“My
thoughts are private. There are spies in this prison. You know that.
Everyone here is paranoid about spies.”
“Is
it a confession? Are you going to show it to your lawyer?”
“Possibly,”
Rouan mumbled under his breath.
“I
am lucky to have someone like you to share the cell with.”
“What
do you mean someone like me?”
Karim
smiled and said, “you must understand you are so different than the
others here, educated, so intelligent, handsome, with some charm,
with you I have someone to talk to, someone who understands things.”
“And
what do you think I understand?”
“That’s
what I want to know. I’m sure you know things that can help me.”
“I
have things on my mind. I don't want to talk right now.”
“Are
you depressed?”
“No,
I'm just cold, cold and tired. Man, I'm freezing my ass off to be
honest.”
“Do
you know what the Prophet said about winter?”
“No.”
“He
said winter is the best season for the believer. Its nights are long
for him to pray in, and its days are short for him to fast in.”
“Well
he'd fit right in here with the food they serve. Better to fast than
eat what they dish out to us.”
“Are
you a believer?”
“A
believer in what?”
“In
the Prophet, I know your family is Algerian.”
“My
mother and father were raised in Algiers; my mother is an Arab, my
father was French, a black foot. He died a few years ago. He did not
believe in God or anything like that. He considered such things as a
crutch for weak minds, the fabrication of poets. He was an
Astrophysicist. His religion was the stars.”
A
fable about God was nothing compared to the vastness of the heavens,
his father would say. He would explain that infinity and nothingness
were two sides of the same coin, a problem of physics, a paradox and
a riddle, yes, but not one that religion could solve; one that could
not be explained by a fairy tale, by a superstitious myth. And on
that, his father and he agreed, the stories of religion were the work
of the poets, nothing more than illusions. Still, the things of the
human heart were a mystery to both his father and to himself. Rouan
sighed. He desperately missed his father at that moment.
“What
do you mean, his religion was the stars? I don't understand. How can
that be? He believed in astrology?” Karim asked.
“You
should study Astrophysics,” Rouan replied.
“Did
you study Astrophysics?”
“That
was a long-ago time ago Karim.”
“Do
you believe in Allah?”
“I'm
not religious. I was not raised Muslim, Karim.”
“Robert
you piss away your life. You must study with me. I read the Koran
every day. It is the only way to become free.”
“What
do you mean, the only way? Mohammad said that Abraham and Moses were
great prophets and they were Jews.”
“This
was long ago. Now the Jews do not follow God. They worship money like
their friends in America. Do you know what it says on the money in
the United States?”
“In
God we trust. I know.”
“Do
you have a girlfriend?” Karim asked.
“Yes.”
“What's
her name?”
“Marie.”
“Do
you have a lot of sex with her?”
“Come
on Karim. What kind of question is that?”
“Do
you think about her? Do you think about having sex with her?”
Rouan
knew that to put an end to these questions, he would have to go on
the offensive. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Why
not?”
“Robert
have you ever sucked another man’s cock?”
“Come
on Karim. What kind of question is that?”
“Have
you ever thought about it?”
“Have
you ever sucked another man’s cock?
“It
is forbidden by the Koran.”
“That’s
not an answer. Many things are forbidden but are done every day.”
Karim
did not respond. Rouan knew that Karim had only embraced Islam since
coming to the Santé. Before that he had been Muslim in name only.
Rouan worried that the bizarre brand of radical Islam that Karim had
adopted (popular amongst the inmates) was ill suited for him both
because it was a sham and because Karim was homosexual. He was also
aware that Karim had a crush on him.
“Do
you want to pray with me today?” Karim asked. “I will set another
prayer rug out for you.”
“I
will think about it. It’s late.
Bonne nuit.”
“I
cannot sleep.”
“Try.”
“C’est
très bizarre when
you speak Arabic it is with an Algerian accent but when you speak
français
it is with an American accent.”
“What
does it matter?”
“An
American accent is very dangerous here.”
Rouan
froze when he heard this. He knew it was true, of course, but hearing
it brought out into the open caused him to shudder. “Look Karim,
you must be quiet, and I must work.”
“If
I lose my religion, I will have nothing.” Karim leaned back and
closed his eyes.
Rouan
knew he would have to be careful with Karim. That he had to keep his
opinions to himself. That Rouan was not buying any of the radical
rhetoric—the hatred of the West in general, and the hatred of the
Jews and the United States in particular—that floated about all
around him. Rouan saw how the inmates in Block C indoctrinated each
other, or rather passed on their twisted ideology of hatred and
intolerance like a virus, contaminating each other, after being
seduced into its misbegotten theology of death.
It
was an old trick, twisting religion to one's own political agenda,
Rouan thought. Christians had done the same for hundreds of years.
How was it that the study and practice of religion had become the
study and practice of war and terror? The question baffled Rouan. But
then again, the followers of bin Laden were typically impressionable
young men from humble beginnings. Rouan thought that Osama bin Laden
was no different than any other politician. His ideology was built
around his own ego. He was idolized and worshiped by his followers
like a Rock Star or TV evangelist. But instead of miracle cures, he
preached jihad, and after death, martyrdom, the promise of virgin
brides. Rouan had nothing but contempt for bin Laden; he had shamed
the Islamic world with his false teachings and mindless rhetoric. But
Rouan knew history was full of such examples. Is this what happens
when the intelligentsia gives up on the notion of God? Rouan asked
himself. Was that vacuum then filled with fanaticism and ignorance?
When the heart, mind and the soul gives up on religion and God, what
was there to take its place? Satellite TV? UFOs? He wasn't sure what
to make of it at all. He didn't know what to believe. He was flying
blind. Somewhere along the line, he didn't know when exactly, he had
flown into a dark cloud, a fog. He was so far out into the darkness
that he could no longer make anything out that resembled land; he
didn't know which way was up or down; he had no point of reference.
If he pulled up on the controls he might plunge to his death. Death,
that would be a way out, he thought. But would that be the definitive
end of it all? Or would it be like sleep where only a portion, a
fragment of it, was remembered? Or was this life the dream from which
one awoke? He didn't know what to believe about this life or the
next. He thought back on his fall from grace, his descent into the
darkness. A fall that could now be easily documented, easily traced,
but could not be changed. It was too late to turn away, he was
trapped. The door behind him had slammed shut and he could not escape
the prison walls that held him captive.
He
went back to work. He had to get the figures right. Then they
wouldn't laugh. Shortly before his arrest, Rouan visited the American
Embassy. He had been warned that the French authorities weren't
buying his explanation of self-defense in the death of Abbas Kali
(shortly before his release from the hospital his passport had been
confiscated). Rouan desperately needed support for his predicament. A
case of an American junkie stabbing a French drug dealer would get
him little sympathy. So Rouan came up with a plan. He would bring
evidence of a terrorist plot. Since Rouan spoke Arabic it wouldn't
seem all that surprising that Rouan had picked up valuable
information on the street. This information would put him in the good
graces of both the American Embassy and French intelligence and by
the time Rouan’s tips had been investigated with nothing found, he
would be back in the United States. Rouan was not unaware how
ridiculous, comical even, he must have looked to the folks at the
American Embassy. He'd been strung out for some time. His skin was
bad, his clothes unwashed. His hair was matted down and uncut. He was
nervous. He had foregone his first shot of dope for the day. He
didn’t want to nod out during the interview. Still he had the
faraway gaze of a junkie obsessed with his next fix. Rouan resented
that he'd been turned over to a young American case officer, Jim
Sinclair. Sinclair was just a kid; his one qualification being that
he spoke French fluently. When Rouan told Sinclair about the plans
he'd discovered, Sinclair just smiled and ushered him out of his
office as if he were an unwelcome relative in from the hills.
Sinclair couldn't have been more transparent. Rouan was just someone
who had to be dealt with and then written off in a report to be filed
away and forgotten.
Later
after several visits and calls by Rouan, a meeting was arranged with
a graying bureaucrat and one-time ballet dancer man by the name of
Devon Andersen. Rouan was actually quite surprised that his request
had been given the green light. Andersen had power, authority,
however, he treated it all like a bad joke and stated that he had
only agreed to the meeting to insist that Rouan leave Paris and seek
treatment for his drug addiction. (Rouan had admitted he had a drug
problem to Sinclair in an earlier interview.) Andersen went on to say
that claiming to have proof that al-Qaeda intended to use tactical
nuclear weapons was like saying one had seen plans for a car bomb
hidden in the apartment of a Palestinian terrorist. Homeland
security, the CIA, the FBI were all looking for wayward nuclear
weapons. Had he found a missing warhead? Had he found a plutonium
trigger? No. Anderson declared that what Rouan claimed to have seen
was either the result of a drug induced hallucination, or worse than
that, a deliberate fabrication concocted by a sick mind. Rouan
rebutted his remarks by calling him an idiot. Andersen then slapped
the papers out of Rouan's hands (notes done in a childish scrawl that
he had too hastily prepared).
After
that humiliation, Rouan lost all hope. He'd been diagnosed with a
bipolar disorder a decade before and had been on and off various
medications for just as long. He often stopped taking the pills. He
didn't like the side effects. His highs and lows would disappear, and
his world would turn to stone. He tried to manage his illness by
taking illicit drugs in an ill-fated search for his own customized
pharmacological solution, to find his equilibrium, to find mental,
spiritual and emotional balance, and ultimately his place in the
world. But in the end, he found only sporadic moments of peace (for
the most part in the beginning of his drug use) and found his life
enshrouded in desperate and futile attempts to find that magic moment
when all was bliss. The serenity he found with heroin was short
lived. And off the drugs (in particular the opiates) he alternated
between states of depression and mania. So without any medication of
any kind, he was subject to severe and debilitating mood swings. On
the prescribed pills, he thought himself as an impostor, a fake, with
no true human emotions, a zombie. He'd lose track of what he believed
was his true self. Nothing would really register. No strong feelings
at least. He hated that. Off the medication, however, his mania would
kick in. He hated the trip back down. (Re-entry could be tough. It
burned him to the core.) He dreaded the eventual crash. It was
jarring, violent. He loved the rocket ride up when there was no time
to think of the crash, no time to think of the long fall back to
earth. All he could think of was climbing higher. If things got bumpy
on the way up, he would use heroin to take the edge off. But
ultimately the drugs would fail him and he would be back chasing
ghosts, burned out, strung out and depressed. This left him
vulnerable to delusions and fantasy. His grandiosity distanced him
from the pain, from the guilt, his delusions providing him with a
sanctuary, a refuge from reality (which was at times was just too
hard to bear). So, he dreamed of saving the world (if only he could
save himself).
Rouan
turned his mind back to the task at hand. For the warhead he
substituted the word in Arabic for Bride and for the trigger, Uranium
235, he used the word Bridegroom: a weapon the size of footlocker
that could take out a major portion of a city. The figures flashed
before him as if in a vision. He began to write faster. He saw the
weapon in his mind’s eye exactly. The design was ingenious. He paid
little attention to the individual letters that he was putting down
on paper; he used a kind of shorthand that he would go back to and
correct later. He wanted to get it down this time before it all
vanished from his mind, from his grasp, once again. The second
diagram showed how the components found in the first diagram could be
broken down, transported and then reassembled at the target zone; a
weapon that could be duplicated a dozen times over, in a dozen other
cities. Rouan believed these diagrams were key to his freedom, if and
only if they seemed authentic. If the diagrams seemed genuine, and
his story was believed, he would be a hero, he would be released,
even if it all was just one big lie.
“Why
are you writing so fast?” Karim asked.
“Wait.”
Rouan lifted up his free hand indicating to Karim that he was
occupied. “I can't talk right now.” He wanted to get every detail
written down while it was still fresh in his memory. He carefully
copied in a fine legible script what he had written and added a note
and then placed it all in a large, brown envelope, holding it in his
hands as if it were some kind of lifeline.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rouan
walked in step with several other prisoners (who were also on their
way to the visiting area), a guard followed closely behind them. The
guard was older than most of the other guards and had already gone
gray. Rouan had been told that he had worked in the Santé for over
twenty years. It was hard to believe that someone could tolerate
being behind those walls for that long even if he could go home at
night. The thought of spending years in this place or one like it
caused him a great amount of anxiety, worry. He wanted out. Even the
thought of doing the time was a kind of punishment in itself—it was
designed that way, Rouan supposed. As he walked along the catwalk
outside his cell, the rows and rows of pale-yellow reinforced steel
doors reminded Rouan of the drawers in a morgue. He was escorted
through several locked doors and then a long set of metal stairs.
From there he walked under the big glass skylight that stood in the
center of the prison. Rouan had been remanded to custody with the
expectation that he would be brought to trial for the killing of a
West African, Abbas Kali, and for drug possession (drugs were found
at the scene). He wasn't sure of the exact wording of the law in
France; he was, however, aware that it had taken two magistrates
signing off on his detention order while his case was investigated.
Without
recognizing him (this was their first meeting), Jean-Marc Frenot
looked down at his shoes and touched his finger to his tongue and
wiped off a smudge. He was young, fit and wore the pink badge given
to all lawyers. After he realized that his new client was standing
before him, he stood and greeted him. He regarded Rouan closely.
“Bonjour, Je m'appelle Jean-Marc Frenot.”
“Bonjour,”
Rouan smiled and shook his hand firmly. “Anglais,
si' vous plait.
I prefer that we speak English. I requested an English-speaking
attorney.”
“I
speak English.” Frenot was taken aback. Rouan wasn't quite what he
expected.
“I've
been assigned to your case following your request for representation
to the authorities here at La Santé.”
“There
are some things we need to get out the way. Some things I need to
tell you.”
“Of
course, that's why I'm here.”
“As
you probably know, I fired the other lawyer.”
“He
did not speak English? Monsieur Rouan, you are not a tourist in a
café.”
“No,
he reminded me of a waiter who I disliked immensely.” Rouan said
sarcastically. He realized too late that he was being cocky at
exactly the wrong time. This was the wrong approach. So, he dialed it
back and stated what the real problem was: “The lawyer assigned to
me made an appearance for the record only. He had no interest in me
or my case. When I asked him a few questions such as how long the
process might take, he didn't seem to have even a basic understanding
of my case. I don't think he reviewed it all. I think he simply
showed up at the prison and asked to see me since I was on the list
of prisoners he had to see for that day. After that, he missed
several appointments, a no show. I then asked for a new attorney. He
did not like that. He took great offense. So here you are.”
Frenot
seemed sympathetic. “When someone is facing such serious charges,
there is often some bitterness misdirected at one's lawyer. But I can
assure I will do my best.” Frenot eyed Rouan and squinted as if
trying to bring him into focus; it was clear that he didn't know what
to make of Rouan.
“Like
I said, the guy was a no show. It was obvious he wasn't going to do
anything for me. My anger wasn't misdirected. I imagine he spent less
than five minutes reviewing my case.”
“I
misspoke. Sometimes the workload for public defenders is heavy. It is
not easy to grasp all the facts from a single case upon first meeting
a client with such a heavy case load.”
“Let's
drop the discussion about the old lawyer. You seem to be bright and
have at least reviewed the basics of my case.”
“Yes,
I have.”
“Then
you can see that these charges never should have been brought against
me in the first place. That was his knife. He stabbed me. I almost
bled to death. I'm sure you have the report from the hospital.”
“Yes,
I have that report from the hospital. But I also have another report.
The problem is your dependence on narcotics. While there is no arrest
record for you here in France, the medical report states that there
were fresh needle marks on both of your arms and quite a bit a
scarring. It appears you have had a drug problem for quite some time.
And the man that died was a drug dealer. This is all known. Is this
not correct? I don't understand. Help me please, Monsieur Rouan. Why
would a drug dealer want to kill you?”
“Yes,
I have a problem with drugs. But that is not why he tried to kill
me.”
“I
don't understand. Help me please, Monsieur Rouan.”
“There
was a struggle. Did I stab myself? He was trying to kill me.” Rouan
was becoming increasingly desperate.
“Self-defense,
it's possible.”
“No,
no, that character was sent to kill me. It was a premeditated attack
on me.”
“Sent
to kill you, for what reason?”
“To
get revenge for me telling the authorities about the terrorist cell
at La Courneuve.” Rouan knew this wasn't true, that it was a lie.
He hadn't discovered the terrorist cell in La Courneuve (actually he
had spotted French Intelligence in the area but that was all). The
images of the raid in the Cite des 400 were still vivid in his mind:
pictures he'd seen on French TV of timers and detonators found in a
washing machine. More than a hundred police and a thirty member SWAT
team stormed a housing project, carrying assault rifles with laser
sights. Images of chemicals, two empty propane canisters, cash, fake
passports and a computer were shown.
“I
remember reading about the raid at La Courneuve. So, you are saying
that you were an informant leading up to the raid?” Frenot asked.
“I'm
no informant.” Rouan's ego was bruised by being relegated to such a
low position on the food chain. Though there was truth in what Frenot
said. French intelligence often used Arab speaking junkies for tips,
a practice that often brought results.
“I
don't understand. What are you saying then?”
Rouan
blurted out, “I’m CIA. I was sent here to Paris on a job. I was
assigned to the Alliance Base, a joint task force of American and
French intelligence headquartered in Paris.”
“Monsieur
Rouan if you persist with these fabrications, you will have to get a
new lawyer. Maybe you can dream one of those up, too.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“The
CIA, retaliation for La Courneuve, Monsieur Rouan if you were really
CIA, you would not be here, calls would have been made on your behalf
to secure your release. Even if it was suspected that you were CIA,
your life would be in danger here. So please cease with the spy
stories and let us get down to the facts.”
“You
don't understand. I was booted out because of my heroin habit. I
pissed a lot of people off. Because I speak Arabic, I was recruited
to work with the Alliance Base. I traveled back and forth to North
Africa, Spain and the south of France. But after my drug use
escalated, I became a liability. We parted company.”
“Monsieur
Rouan, please. Half the North African inmates here are informants for
French intelligence. The other half are terrorists. Some are both.”
“Oui.
Nous faisons de progrès.”
“Oh.
You speak French very well, Monsieur Rouan.”
“My
father was French; he helped put a man on the moon. He was there in
the control room when Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon.”
Frenot
smiled. “With you, it is always the tall tales.”
“It’s
true, he worked for NASA.”
“A
man on the moon, more nonsense, please come down to earth, this is a
serious situation.” Frenot lifted up his hand as if to say enough.
“Monsieur Rouan, please stop.”
Frenot
was skeptical. Rouan could see that. Frenot was troubled by their
conversation. He did not know what or who he was dealing with. When
Frenot asked questions he not only listened but seemed to ponder and
weigh Rouan's every response. Rouan was well aware that he had been
caught Frenot off guard; that Rouan was not what he expected. Rouan
knew that Frenot had expected just another junkie who had been sucked
into the whirlpool of his addiction and while it was clear that he
wasn't buying what Rouan was selling, still somehow Frenot was
disturbed by it all. Rouan was hard to categorize, he did not readily
fit into any preconceived box. As his story unfolded, Frenot began to
look unsure of himself. It was clear that he didn't know what to make
of Rouan. Rouan knew that he needed Frenot if was ever going to be
released. He'd been abandoned by the American Embassy. He was a man
without a country. No one wanted anything to do with him. His former
associates considered him toxic and ceased any communications with
him. Rouan was away from his family. He'd mixed pieces of the truth
with lies. Once the words came out of his mouth, he wanted to take
them back. But how could he? His credibility was shot. He'd made a
big mistake. He should have told the truth or flat out lied and not
claimed something that fell somewhere between the two. Rouan was
hoping Frenot would use this as bargaining chip. Rouan's intention
was to muddy the waters with spy stories. But it was a mistake.
“It
is clear to anyone, it was self-defense. It was his knife. My
girlfriend was there. She will tell you.”
“I
have the statement by her that the police took. But she is biased. As
you say, she is your girlfriend.”
“What
is this?” Frenot pointed to the envelope.
“It’s
a letter for my mother.” Rouan lied. He certainly was not going to
show Frenot what he'd written. Not now. He could see that would be a
mistake. “It’s in English so I don’t know how much of it would
be understood here by the authorities. As you know they read
everything. It’s private. I thought you might mail it for me. But
I've decided rewrite the letter. So I'm not ready to send it yet.”
Rouan
was afraid Frenot would open it and discover its contents. Rouan
wasn't sure what his reaction would be. He could not take the chance
and give it to Frenot. Rouan thought that he should have not brought
the notes. He should not have lied to Frenot about La Courneuve.
Rouan felt he had already lost all creditably with Frenot.
“Please
tell me that you haven’t made any of these wild claims to anyone in
authority.”
“No,
I haven’t.” Rouan lied again.
“Very
well, I will speak to the examining investigator that this was a
clear case of self-defense. This character you stabbed has quite a
nasty reputation.”
On
Frenot's second visit he had a proposition for Rouan: “I think I
can get you out of here. A deal that eventually would lead to
involuntary manslaughter and your release. They have been trying to
clean up the Place de Stalingrad for years. I believe this is what
the prosecutor wants to talk to you about. He's preparing a case
against some associates of Hassan Mustafa. But he needs someone to
testify against Hassan Mustafa to help leverage the case, to exert
pressure on Mustafa. The examining investigator was quite close to
charging you with murder. Let me ask you something. What can you tell
him about Hassan Mustafa?”
Rouan's
face flushed with anger. “If that is what he wants, forget it.”
Frenot
looked to the ground and shook his head. “Who is he? Did he sell
you drugs?”
“He
helped me out. Okay. But finally, one day he told me he was finished.
It was tough on me. But I respect him for turning his back on all
that. I won't betray him. He's free of all that. I won’t become a
rat.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Marie
Loire smiled nervously as Rouan entered the visiting area. She wore a
white badge given to visitors on her blouse. Surprisingly, beneath
the unwashed, bleach blonde hair and ragged appearance was a
beautiful woman still in her twenties. Normally detainees were
allowed three visits a week from family, but Marie was not married to
Rouan, so getting permission to visit meant filling out a lot of
paperwork. Both the visitors and the detainees were given a number
marked in invisible ink that could only be seen under an ultraviolet
light. In addition, they were both searched: the visitors beforehand;
the detainees before and after. Visitors were not allowed to bring
anything into the visiting area. Each inmate was assigned to an
individual booth or stall—the visitors on one side and the
prisoners on the other. The booths were monitored by video cameras, a
sophisticated surveillance system that could zoom in on their every
movement.
Rouan
kissed Marie. (It was tolerated by the guards.) Somehow, she seemed
heavier—she was such a small girl. Only now and again were there
flashes of the old Marie, her eyes sparkling when Rouan told her how
much he missed her. He knew she had begun selling herself for a fix.
She hadn't held a job in over two years. Shortly after they got
strung out, he was making enough to pay the rent and keep them in
drugs. So, she quit working. But without him, while he was locked up,
she was left without any choice but prostitution. Rouan couldn't
stand the thought of her prostituting herself. Finally, he asked her.
“Marie, you don't look well. What's wrong?”
“I've
been sick.”
“It's
the drugs. You have to get off the drugs.”
“It's
too late. You don't understand. It's not that.” She looked him
directly in the eye, waiting for him to guess the truth.
“What
is it?” .
“I'm
going to have a baby.” She trembled and began to cry. She then took
a deep breath and whispered, “I cannot get an abortion. I cannot
kill my baby.” Marie came from a very religious family in Bordeaux
and found abortion unacceptable. Rouan didn't want to ask if he was
the father (after all, he was in jail and she sold herself daily for
drugs; the father could have been any one of her customers). He
didn't want to know who the father was. It really didn't matter. It
would be their baby, he thought to himself. He just wanted help her.
“Don't
worry Marie. I think I know how I can get out of here and we can be
together.”
“How?”
There was a look of desperation in Marie's eyes.
“The
prosecutor needs my help with Hassan.”
“I
don't understand.”
“They
need some information.”
They
want you to say something bad about Hassan. Robert, Hassan is our
friend.”
“I
will make something up. I will tell them what they want to hear. It
is not my fault that Hassan was a drug dealer. They've obviously had
their eye on him for some time.” Rouan had begun to rationalize.
It
was odd as Marie sat before him, an image of the two of them racing
down the Champs Elysees on his fire engine red Ducati motorcycle
flashed before him. It was spring and all of Paris was in bloom.
Outfitted in black helmets and visors, leather jackets and pants, and
boots, the two of them must have looked like a couple of Martians or
characters straight out of Cocteau’s Orphee.
“It
is all my fault you should have gone home to the United States when
your mother sent you the ticket.” Marie began to cry.
Right
before the death of Abbas Kali, Marie had discovered the airline
ticket in the pocket of his leather jacket. She had begun to cry.
Normally the effect of the heroin would have made sex impossible but
somehow her whimpering triggered something in him and as consoled
her, he stiffened and they made love. Later, he got some drugs out of
the nightstand. He cooked up a shot of dope. “Come over here, I
have something for you.” Marie sat up and passively gave me her arm
so that Rouan could give her a shot of dope. Her world went blank.
Her anger had dissipated. Rouan promised Marie he would cash in the
ticket and stay in Paris. And that sealed his fate. Soon after that
decision, their lives took a terrible turn, culminating in the death
of Abbas Kali in the north of Paris.
Rouan
realized from the beginning that the circumstances surrounding the
death of Abbas Kali could be interpreted both legally and ethically
in shades of gray. But for the prosecutor, Bertrand Perrout, a
balding man in his fifties trying to rejuvenate his flagging career,
it had been all too simple. If Rouan cooperated, it would all be seen
as an unfortunate accident, manslaughter at worst. If he did not
cooperate, then it would be seen as murder. Perrout had very little
interest in his case; ironically, he had no idea that Rouan's own
connections went far beyond Hassan's. Still, Hassan had local
connections in the drug trade (Hassan had been Rouan's personal
dealer) and Perrout wanted to put a case together that would shake up
all of Paris. Rouan could give the whole set up to Perrout. And this
would make Perrout a star. Perrout was elated but not Rouan. He could
not shake the guilt he felt about Hassan. The price of his freedom
would be high. Hassan had been a good friend to Marie and Rouan.
Rouan could see his face before him, open, loving. If only they had
argued and had a falling out, then his betrayal of him would have
been so much easier. But all of this would lead to one thing, Hassan
would be killed. Rouan had taken the deal, just the same.
Rouan
tried to think of ways he might protect Hassan. But the truth was he
knew too much. He knew, among other things, where Hassan picked up
the drugs. Rouan had once followed him when he was desperate for a
fix. Rouan even knew the names of the group who supplied the drugs to
Hassan. (He knew more than even Perrout could imagine.) He knew the
group in Marseilles where the drugs had been shipped. He even knew
the Syrians who arranged for the drug to be brought to Marseilles. He
had dealt with the same Syrians years before. But Perrout just wanted
Hassan's contacts. Perrout was only interested in a criminal case in
Paris. Information on a wider scale would just be turned over to
someone qualified to handle it. It was abundantly clear that Perrout
had no clue as to Rouan's background. Perrout was blissfully unaware
of all of this. He just wanted to tie up the loose ends in a Paris
drug case. That would be enough for him. Rouan was convinced that
Perrout had no idea of Rouan's true background within the drug trade.
Perrout just thought Rouan was another junkie to be flipped.
Rouan
never carried or transported drugs across international borders
himself. But he did arrange for the shipment. Sometimes Rouan was
responsible for recruiting human smugglers. He would befriend someone
in need of money and have him in turn recruit the poor: young women
and men who would serve as mules to transport the drugs from North
Africa to New York. This kept a firewall between him and the drugs.
Sometimes he would put together a team in Morocco. Working with mules
was Rouan’s least favorite thing. But ironically it was what he did
best. He felt guilty about this especially when one of his recruits
was arrested. This is why he preferred to recruit one man who in turn
would recruit from the pool of his own friends and associates. But
this sometime meant that the operation would not go as smoothly, and
the courier would disappear only to be located later and killed.
Rouan felt guilty about this.
Shortly
after he arrived in Paris, he was asked to make contact with some of
his old associates in North Africa. His old contacts welcomed him
back on the scene in North Africa and Marseilles. They knew Rouan had
an uncanny ability to find recruits who were not only able to pass
undetected on international flights (which after 9/11 was more
important than ever) but were loyal and always showed up at the
prearranged hotel where the drugs would be picked up. Being a native
Arabic speaker came in handy working with mules. Once the drugs had
safely found their way to their destination, Rouan would receive
payment for the job. He was paid on a job to job basis. An account
had been set up for him in Geneva and an ATM card was given to him so
that he could access the funds (nothing was in his name). But since
he never transported drugs himself, once he was back in France he was
on his own. Through contacts he was given the name of someone in the
pipeline, a low-level dealer, who could get whatever he needed.
Hassan was an associate of an associate and knew little of Rouan’s
business.
Since
Hassan had dropped out of the drug trade, he would be the first one
his associates would suspect as an informant once a criminal process
was begun. Hassan did not have a record which would make him a good
witness, more or less. But all of this would lead to one thing:
Hassan's death. Rouan would be purchasing his own freedom with
Hassan’s blood. Could he show just enough to Perrout without
jeopardizing Hassan? Was that even possible? Rouan didn't see how.
The prosecutor had already zeroed in on Hassan and Hassan would be
made to flip with Rouan's help (just the threat of having someone
that close to Hassan willing to speak against him was in itself all
the pressure that Perrout need to break Hassan and force him to
betray his contacts). Ironically, neither Hassan nor his wife,
Fatima, used drugs themselves. They were just a poor family trying to
make ends meet.
Hassan
and his wife had three children. They were hard working Moroccans.
But saddled with three preschoolers Fatima had to stay home with the
children. It was difficult making ends meet. Rouan knew Hassan was
involved in the drug trade with some Arab groups in the area. But he
never spoke about it. It was obvious that he did it for the money. He
was resistant to the radical politics of jihad. He had no interest in
that. He knew that Rouan had lived many years in the United States
but that his mother and father were originally from Algiers. But he
had no idea who Rouan was working for when they met. It was clear at
the time that if he could find a way out financially, he would put an
end to his work in the drug trade.
After
Rouan gained Hassan's confidence, he asked Hassan if he could help
him score. Hassan explained, “I don’t sell to just anyone. I sell
to a certain few, most of which I have known my whole life. Other
Moroccans, Algerians, Pakistanis. They in turn, sell on the street.
But maybe I can help you. We’re friends, right?”
“Certainly,”
Rouan replied.
Hassan
handed Rouan a packet of heroin. “I’m planning on quitting soon.
I can’t sell drugs anymore. I don’t want to be a part of this
dirty business anymore. I’m sorry Robert, just this one time. I
can’t sell you any more drugs. My brother says I can work for him
in his Bazaar selling knickknacks. He doesn’t want me selling drugs
anymore, either.”
But
it wasn't the last time Hassan sold Rouan drugs. It took almost a
year for Hassan to free himself from the drug trade. And it appeared,
he hadn't gotten free after all. Rouan thought it was both strange
and unfair how things worked out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hospitalized
and weaned off the drugs, Marie looked wonderful. She found a doctor
that was sympathetic to her situation. It took a great deal of
courage for her to admit that she was both pregnant and strung out.
Arrangements were made for Marie to be hospitalized and treated for
her addiction. She visited Rouan only once after that. She was
visibly pregnant and looked completely different: her eyes were clear
and her skin had regained its youthful appearance. Rouan was so happy
to see her recovery, to her back looking like her old self. She spoke
about how she had fixed up their apartment. He proposed and she
accepted. They would be married. He could not wait to get out of jail
and begin their new life. He was filled with hope.
But
a few weeks later his hopes evaporated. After several weeks with no
contact, he had a bad feeling. Making phone calls was difficult and
expensive. The phone number he had for Marie was no longer working
(this in itself did not disturb him, since disposable phones were
readily available in Paris and Marie would often lose her phone and
would have to purchase another). Rouan told himself with the baby
coming so soon visiting the prison was just too difficult for her
(but deep down he didn't believe it). He began to imagine the worst.
Finally he persuaded Frenot to try to find her and if necessary hand
deliver a note that he had prepared.
Rouan
regretted that he ever got Marie involved with heroin. He blamed
himself. The first time they did it together was on a trip to
Amsterdam. After a nighttime walk along a glittering canal in the
Red-Light District, they returned to their hotel room. They had
snorted a little coke and were already wired.
“Is
it coke?” Marie had asked.
“En
anglais,
it's called chasing the dragon.” Rouan said. He then lit a match
and inhaled the smoke with a straw. Holding the smoke in, he handed
the straw to Marie and she took a hit. He watched her as she took in
the drug. She was transported to another world, another state of
being. After that, they began using on a daily basis. Sometimes they
would take the train out beyond Vincennes to Val de Marne. In Paris
there was always something for them to see. One night a band of
ragged musicians emerged from down a darkened street, they both
thought it was so strange. The mystery and the magic of Paris was
enhanced by the drugs they took. Sometimes they would walk along the
Seine in a heroin induced trance. More times than not they would nod
out at Parc Monceau or would watch the toy sailboats in the
Luxembourg Gardens. But then Rouan would become paranoid. Such
heavily policed spots made him nervous. So they stayed home in their
tiny, dilapidated studio apartment in the far north end of Paris.
Rouan thought back to their first meeting and Marie's lost innocence.
She was so pretty. She worked behind the checkout counter at the
Monoprix where he shopped. He was old enough to be her father.
Finally, he got up the nerve to ask her out. Just to a nearby café.
He was thrilled when she accepted. They went to a café. There was
still a trace of snow out on the street. Since it was cold outside,
they huddled together in a booth inside. They ordered hot chocolate.
“Have
you worked at Monoprix for a long time?” Rouan asked.
“For
just six months. Before that I lived with my parents in Bordeaux. But
it was very boring.”
“Did
you grow up there?”
“Yes,
but I prefer Paris.”
“I
prefer Paris myself, so that makes two of us.”
The
two of us, is there a two of us?” She asked with a hopeful smile.
“So
here we are. It must be fate.”
“Fate,
I like that. Oh I worked so hard today. My feet ache. I’m very
tired.” She sighed.
“Long
day?”
“Too
long.”
“Poor
baby,” Rouan leaned in and gave her a kiss on her forehead. She
looked up at him and he kissed her on the lips.
He
told her he was an American. The part about being involved in drug
smuggling, he left out. She didn't know where he got his money. She
knew he would take trips, but he explained very little about where
he'd gone. No doubt she would have found it all very entertaining.
Still, she amused herself with the details he did disclose. He found
her very endearing.
“Oh
it’s going to be hard letting you go.” He teased her one day.
“Letting
me go? Oh no. You’re never leaving; you’re my man, now.” She
teased him back. She was so happy.
“Be
careful what you wish for,” Rouan laughed. “Oh, you’re
positive. Is that it?”
“I’ve
been wishing for a man like you for a long time.”
“Okay,
you’ve been warned.” Rouan smiled again, he was flattered. He
could not believe his good luck.
“Robert
speak Texan with me.”
“Howdy,
Ma’am, call me Billy Bob.”
“Do
you have a chapeau?” She giggled.
“I
have a cowboy hat, boots and a big Texas belt buckle.”
She
lit up the joint and took a few hits. “Want some?” she asked.
Rouan
was woozy from drinking wine.
“No
go ahead.” He eyed the joint. “Okay, let me have a little.”
Marie
placed the lit end of the joint in her mouth and blew the smoke into
Rouan's nose and mouth; he inhaled deeply and took in the smoke. They
began to kiss one another; at first very softly after each hit from
the joint but after some time they forgot about the joint and began
kissing each other more and more passionately. He took off her bra
and blouse and began to kiss her breasts. She responded. He puts his
hand between her thighs. She moaned softly.
In
the beginning it was all one big fairy tale where Rouan reigned king
and Marie was his queen. But in the end their fairy kingdom went up
in smoke while they nodded out, unconscious at the feet of a
deceitful and all-consuming god. Rouan thought back to the last time
they shot dope together. It was in a dilapidated squat. (In Paris one
can claim to be an artist and take over an abandoned building and
squat. But there was no hope of art being done, just drugs and lots
of them.) There was no electricity in the building but here and there
light came in from the street. There were rats. Rouan imagined bats
swooping down on them. He saw monsters in every corner, toxic smoke
rising up all around them. But no knights in shining armor would come
to their rescue. They needed more dope to make the monsters go away.
In
the shadows, Rouan knelt and prepared for another fix. Marie held her
lighter over his track marks (the skin was bruised from puncture
marks and the vein was inflamed). He was an old veteran. Next was
Marie's turn. In the half-light she prepared a shot of dope for
herself. She was a veteran, too. They were like vampires, existing in
an endless night as they consumed one fix after another. They were
like the walking dead. Rouan did another shot of dope. He closed his
eyes as the drug took effect. When he opened his eyes, he thought he
saw a tall bird-like figure hovering in the shadows. Then he saw a
flying dragon swoop down into the room, its giant wings eclipsing
everything, burying everything beneath the circumference of its
wings. As the heroin continued to pass into his bloodstream, he
became very sleepy. He felt as if he was descending into a dark pool
of water. He was blind and could not breathe. He felt as if he was
being buried alive. He would have panicked, but he could not move,
his pulse was non-existent. His face turned blue. He was dying.
Everything went black. He awoke with Marie pounding on his chest.
Marie brought him back from the edge and saved his life.
A
few hours later, Marie and Rouan found themselves out of drugs and
out of cash. Initially, Rouan was warmed and comforted by the drug
(like a kind of wet dream) but that feeling had faded and the old
ghosts would return: sickness and withdrawal, an experience that was
somewhere between divorce and amputation in its level of pain. It was
intense. Rouan dreaded it. He thought it was the worst. It was like
dying over and over again. Marie and Rouan quickly found Abbas Kali,
a tall thin North African drug dealer, in his usual place: a narrow
passageway that stunk of urine, partially illumined by a lone lamp
post enshrouded in fog.
“We
need something” Rouan said, stating the obvious.
“Money,
you owe me money,” Kali replied.
“You'll
get the money, just a little something for now. I'll be back. You
know I'm good for it.”
“No.”
Kali shook his head.
“Come
on man. Two dime bags are all we need.”
“Money,
cash, baby, sorry.”
“I'll
be right back with the money.” Rouan lied
“Put
your girl to work. You'll have the money in no time.”
Half
out of his head to begin with, Kali's remark pushed Rouan over the
edge. He grabbed Kali by the collar. Kali pulled a knife. But Rouan
didn’t see it, and certainly not before the blade tore through both
Rouan's shirt and jacket piercing the skin right above his hip. Rouan
reacted fiercely and elbowed Kali in the jaw, knocking him to the
ground. Stunned, Kali looked up as Rouan took hold of the knife and
brought it down hard into his chest, leaving a small opening, a slit
really, but an opening large enough just the same for Kali to slip
from this world into the next.
Only
after the act did Rouan come back to himself. It had been as if he
had been watching it all in a darkened movie theater and now it was
too late to undo what he had done. It had all happened so fast, so
unexpectedly, that disoriented and in a fit of both panic and rage,
he had mistakenly thought that by removing the knife from his side
and sticking it into the heart of another, he could deflect the pain
away from himself and find some relief. But the pain had only spread
making him believe falsely that part of the knife had broken off
(even though it had gone in and come out cleanly enough) and was now
growing ever larger inside of him with each shallow and belabored
breath. The world began to disappear. But that was good, he thought.
He wanted to rid of his body and thereby be rid of the throbbing pain
that radiated up and down his torso. He began to float up into the
darkness and felt much better. His body was falling away and with it
all the worries and weight of the world. Stretched out on the ground,
he couldn’t focus on anything except for Marie's radiant and tender
face hovering just inches above his–-her arms holding him close,
her eyes filled with so much compassion and love. Rouan thought that
if he was dying how lucky he would be to have such a guardian.
Sirens
whined on and off in rapid succession from police cars as their blue
lights flashed across the early morning fog rising from the Bassin de
la Villette. Then the paramedics pushed Marie aside and attended to
Rouan before putting him in the ambulance.
Once
in the ambulance, Rouan drifted in and out of consciousness. But
overwhelmed with fear and adrenaline, his mind continued to race,
flashing from the dire situation at hand to the whirlwind of events
that gone down. He wanted the world to stop for the ambulance to
stop, for the images of the past to stop, for the accusations to
stop, for the paramedic to stop working on him, for the harsh glare
of the overhead light to be extinguished. He wanted it all to end;
mostly he wanted the pain both physical and mental to stop, the
shame, the guilt. But he had no power over any of it. He had held on
so tight for so long that all he wanted to do was to let go and for
it all to stop. But something prevented that. Was it the expression
on Marie’s face as he was loaded into the ambulance or something
else? He had hoped to restore his reputation, but he’d disgraced
himself and only added to the infamy of his past. It had been like
doing the high wire act in a circus. And he certainly had been flying
high, too high. After that he came crashing down and hit the ground
with a terrible thud.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The
week that Pope John Paul II died, as the television flickered with
images of the dead pontiff (TVs were made available to prisoners for
a weekly fee), Rouan thought of all that had changed since Karol
Wojtyla became pope. Even though Rouan was an agnostic he had a deep
respect for John Paul II and all he accomplished. Rouan glanced over
at Karim. It was obvious that things had changed between them. In the
past, Rouan had been like a kind of older brother. Karim was always
pestering Rouan with questions. Now Karim asked nothing of Rouan.
“Is
Paris still out there?” Rouan joked as Karim stood looking out the
window.
Karim
did not reply.
“Karim,
did you hear me? How is your case going?”
Karim
turned and looked at Rouan, “Why do you care? You care only about
yourself. Do not pretend that you care about me.”
“Of
course, I'm care about my case; first and foremost, as I'm sure you
care about your own.”
“My
case, no one cares. My lawyer doesn't care. France doesn’t care.”
Karim was poisoned with bitterness, self-pity.
Rouan
was unsure on how to reply. Finally, he spoke, “we should talk
more. I miss our talks Karim.”
“We
shall see.”
Both
Rouan and Karim knew that whatever bond they once shared was broken,
that their former relationship would never be fully restored.
Each
day Rouan grew more worried about Marie. Why hadn't he heard from
her? Had she lost the baby and fallen into a depression or worse than
that was she back on drugs? Finally, an answer came. Rouan was
summoned to the attorney's room.
Frenot
was pale, somber.
“What
is it? What is the matter? What does Perrout want now? More blood?”
Rouan asked. He was still bitter about the deal that he'd made.
“Robert,
I have some very bad news.”
Rouan
was not ready for more bad news. He could tell from Frenot's
expression that it was not something simply about his court case,
that it was something of a personal nature, something that was
troubling for Frenot to even speak about. Had Marie lost the baby?
The thought raced through his head. Then he thought of his mother.
But that would not have disturbed Frenot the way this news had. Rouan
had to know just the same even if he wasn't ready.
“Tell
me; please don't let it be too bad.”
“It
is very bad. They found Marie. Marie is dead.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“She
was found in an alley yesterday. I was told this morning. Actually,
Perrout called me. He seemed genuinely sad. He offered his
sympathies. Apparently at one time, he considered having her testify
in your case. She was on some kind of list. It looks like an
overdose.”
“That's
not possible. She was clean. It must be someone else that they found,
someone who looked like Marie. Maybe someone stole her ID.” Rouan
was desperate, angry, confused.
“I'm
sure Robert. She was identified by her landlord. Her family has been
notified. There is no question it was her.”
Rouan
did not want to accept what Frenot was telling him. But deep down it
made sense. Marie had been off drugs and her tolerance would have
been low and with no money, her fiancée locked up, she was
vulnerable. She hadn't told her family the whole truth. They knew she
was pregnant, but she hadn't told them about her problem with drugs
or the fact that the American she was engaged to was in jail. How
could they offer her help, if she kept her problems from them? Rouan
felt the sting of blame through and through. If he'd been free, if
only he had been free.
Frenot
looked down, trying to avert his eyes from the pain written on
Rouan's face. Rouan was shaking. He could not look directly at
Frenot. He wanted to crawl into the corner and disappear. If he could
have taken a hot shot of dope at that moment and ended it all, he
would have done it gladly. But the pain just kept on coming, wave
after wave, pounding against every part of his psyche like a fist.
When Rouan glanced in Frenot's direction, there was a look of
sadness.
Finally,
he spoke, his voice coming from somewhere outside himself. “At
least there's one thing. Now I have no reason to testify against
Hassan.”
“No
reason?”
“I
had all these dreams of being a great patriot, but if a man will
betray a friend, how much easier to betray a country? It's time for
the lies to end. And I'm not going to hang Hassan out to dry,
liberty, but at what price, the betrayal of a friend? When Hassan
agreed to supply me with drugs, it was done with a promise. He had
been very careful up to that point. He had never sold drugs to an
outsider. But with me, he took a chance. And I had made a promise to
him. Would I break it? I would be free. But how would I feel when the
news got to me that Hassan or one of his children had been killed?
After I testified against him, sure I could go and never look back.
But I would always wonder. And even if I didn't have to face him
court, that is if he even made it to court, I would be haunted by
what I had done.”
“Think
of your family back in the United States. You have a young daughter.”
“They
don't need me. They certainly don't need the person I've become, the
one who lets everyone down.” Rouan was full of self-pity.
“Maybe
I could arrange for a priest, a psychologist.”
“Okay,
how's this for a confession. I did kill Abbas Kali for the reasons
that everyone believes.”
“Robert,
no.”
“The
biggest and most dangerous lie is the one we tell ourselves. I was
trying to steal the drugs after he had refused to advance them to me.
I killed a man over drugs. That's the truth, and Hassan is not going
to pay for that crime.”
Frenot
seemed impressed with Rouan's honesty at that moment. “Even at
worst it was an accident; it was an act of self-defense. Are you sure
you cannot testify against Hassan?”
“Yes.”
“Bien.
I'll tell the prosecutor. And we'll come up with something else.
Something that is fair for all those involved.” Rouan sensed Frenot
was relieved, that he found Rouan’s ratting out of Hassan to be
distasteful. Frenot was no ordinary jail house lawyer; he was bit of
a philosopher, a deep thinker.
Shortly
after, Perrout put Rouan into solitary confinement in retaliation for
reneging on their agreement. Rouan had nothing but a bed and a
toilet. He drank the toilet water when he became parched. The air was
stale and sickening (it was mid-July). At night, he was given a
blanket. His only human contact was the guard who brought him his
meals. Even so they hardly ever spoke. The prison preferred it that
way. They viewed isolation as a fitting punishment and prohibited the
guards from engaging in long conversations with the inmates. This
left Rouan alone with just his memories. He lived in his own head. He
shared his dark, dingy cell with the ghosts of the past. Their voices
accusing him of terrible things, phantoms whispering in his ear; and
not did he hear voices but he saw their faces; he conversed with his
visitors, at first telling them to go away but after his loneliness
was too much to bear he invited them in, welcomed them into his dark
cell. He expected the guards to say something; he was so sure that
their voices could be heard outside his own head. Most of what was
said was about Marie and the baby. Worst of all, Rouan could even
hear the baby crying late into the night. He kept expecting the
guards to investigate. Finally he asked the guard about the wailing
cries he'd heard. The guard shook his head in disgust and began
calling Rouan “the crazy one”.
Wherever
Rouan turned in the chambers of his mind, he found more heartache. He
wished he could unhook himself from the darkness in his own head but
he could not. Rouan was glad that his father was no longer alive to
see him in his present circumstances, locked up in a French jail.
When his father was alive, Rouan had tried to cover up his drug use.
But his father was always suspicious and was not easily fooled. His
father was far too intelligent to be fooled by his lame excuses for
his wasted appearance and erratic behavior. Rouan so proud that his
father had been a part of the moon landing, a part of history (he
bragged to all of his classmates). The shadow of his father’s
accomplishment was something that hung over his entire life. What had
he accomplished? Nothing, in the end he had brought only shame to
himself and to his family because of his addiction, his mental
illness. Rouan's mother tried to tell him that his bi-polar disorder
was not his fault. His father agreed and stated that it was all a
matter of brain chemistry. But Rouan knew that secretly his parents
suffered with guilt and shame over his condition.
Rouan
thought back to a few years before. It seemed he had begun to turn
things around, that his days were becoming brighter. He had been in
rehab the year before. He was clean and sober for the first time in a
long time. But he was impatient and wanted the changes to come fast,
too fast. He was haunted by his failures and by his many false
starts. His psychological state was precarious, fragile. There were
gaps, gaping holes even, in his psyche. He had been given more than
his share of talents, opportunities, but in a way, this made his
guilt all the worse; he was plagued with a self-loathing buried so
deep within himself that he assumed that this was how he would always
feel. That it was normal to feel lousy about the way his life had
turned out. He wrote all this down in his notebook. He scribbled
away. He jotted down his shortcoming, his failings. His story was
fraught with more than its share of rationalizations and missteps,
ultimately culminating in a long fall into a dark abyss.
Over
and over again Rouan thought about Marie. She had trusted him and he
had led her into the darkness; he had taken her by the hand as they
descended into their own private hell. She was pure, innocent, in her
own way, a purity that he helped to destroy. He could not forgive
himself. He had given her that first shot of dope and after that she
learned how to do it on her own from him. So in a way he had given
her that hot shot of dope. It was too horrible. The world was flat
after all, he thought, and he had fallen off its edge. So be it. He
would have to make a home in the hole that he'd fallen into or go
mad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While
in isolation the authorities found the notepad and the plans for the
weapon that Rouan had drawn up. Perrout threatened Rouan with charges
of terrorism. Rouan told Frenot that he had first studied physics
under his father's tutelage at the age of seven and this was the real
reason for the document's accuracy, and that it was all an elaborate
hoax. The matter was dropped within days, if for no other reason than
it had the potential of making a laughingstock out of Perrout.
After
Rouan had been returned to the general population, he had been put
back in his old cell. But Abdullah had replaced with two other
inmates. They were wild, unpredictable; there was something
frightening about them. Abdullah was either stoned or irritable. But
Rouan's new cell mates were different. And Karim had changed. It was
obvious that he was on drugs. His moods changed constantly. Every
night the two newcomers and Karim would engage in a free for all of
sex and drugs. They had a blanket covering two of the bunks. But
sometimes they would not hide their activities. Other times they
offered Rouan drugs. They were like devils. Rouan was sick of it. To
top it all off, he suspected that Karim had ratted him out and told
the authorities about the notepad and its contents.
“Karim,
I'm going to ask to be moved.” Rouan said calmly.
“But
why, Robert?”
“You
know why.”
“What
did you say to them?”
“To
who?” There was anger and fear in his eyes; and something else,
something more sinister: it chilled Rouan's heart.
“The
brothers, you shouldn't spread lies about me. You know there are
rumors about you, that you are a spy. You are an American working for
the CIA.”
“Don't
be ridiculous. Karim you must be careful what you say about me. I
know that it was you who told the authorities about the notebook.
You're a rat.”
Karim's
eyes flashed with hatred. Rouan thought he was going to come at him
and fight. But Karim stopped, knowing full well (with his slight
build) that he was no match for Rouan. He took a moment and collected
himself. “You must be careful too. Are you going to tell them why
you want to move?”
“I
have to tell them something.”
“No
you will say nothing or I will tell everyone that you are a spy.
You've been warned.” He looked Rouan directly in the eye (but
without really seeing him). The old Karim was gone.
Only
later did Rouan realize how serious Karim's threat was. He was
meeting with Frenot. Frenot looked at Rouan and said, “I must tell
you something. It is a story. But it is much more than a story. It is
a warning. It is well known that French Intelligence officers share
cells with the inmates. Of course, an attorney could never reveal the
name of a French Intelligence officer to an inmate. He could be
brought up on charges. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Frenot
could only mean Karim. It made sense to Rouan. It was as if Karim had
been putting on an act all along; except now he was out of control,
taking drugs, engaging in sex with the other inmates. Rouan knew what
it was like to be undercover and go over the edge. Karim knew, at the
very least, that Rouan had contacts in the intelligence community. If
word got out about Karim's activities, his career as an intelligence
officer would be ruined (and he might even be brought up on charges).
This made Karim very dangerous. Rouan realized then with certainty
that it had been Karim who had brought his notebook to the attention
of the authorities. It all made sense. Karim was either French
intelligence or an informer. This put both Rouan and Karim in a
precarious position. If Karim was French intelligence and the
authorities found out about his drug use, things could go very bad
for Karim. If he was simply an informer, his life was in jeopardy. If
the other prisoners found out, he would most likely be killed.
A
few days later, Rouan had a visitor. He was told at the last minute
but did not recognize the name: James Patrick. It certainly wasn't a
French name. Frenot had mentioned to Rouan that someone had
telephoned and inquired about Rouan's case. Frenot was reluctant to
discuss the case with a stranger over the phone. Frenot claimed he
had forgotten the name but said the visitor was genuinely concerned
with Rouan's wellbeing and that the visitor had an American accent.
Frenot did not know when this mysterious visitor would appear but
only said that it couldn't hurt to agree to a meeting at the jail.
Rouan guessed it was someone either associated with the American
Embassy or one of his former colleagues. Rouan thought there might be
some concern over what Rouan might disclose, considering the
desperate position he was in.
As
soon as Rouan entered the visiting area, he recognized Pat Adair. Pat
had grown a beard and put on weight but Rouan recognized him
immediately. Pat was dressed not in trendy jeans but in baggy pants
and a wrinkled shirt (the ultimate bohemian look). Rouan smiled as he
glanced at Pat. Pat for his part looked at Rouan stoically.
“You're
the last person I expected to see,” Rouan said as the smile
vanished from his face. Pat's expression brought the gravity of his
situation back into Rouan's mind.
“I
should have been the first to come. For that, I apologize.” Then
Pat looked Rouan in the eye and said sternly, “I warned you,
Robert. You weren't ready.”
“So
James Patrick, here you are. Two first names, really?” Rouan
whispered and laughed.
“They
may figure it out, but later.”
“Better
to be paranoid, I suppose.”
“I
have to careful about what I say.” Pat glanced up at the camera and
Rouan nodded.
“No
one believes a damn thing I've got to say.”
“Maybe
so.”
“I
did not think anyone would care or even notice that I was here.”
“Come
on, if only that were true. The list is long. Many are worried about
what you might say.”
“The
ties have been severed. My mind is blank.”
“Maybe
so, but still the information is back there somewhere. And you're
pushed daily to give them something.”
“They
wanted me to flip on a friend of mine. I refused. Well, at first I
agreed. My girlfriend was going to have a baby. But after her death,
there was no point. If they really knew anything about me, they would
have asked bigger questions.”
Pat
frowned and the tone in his voice mellowed. “I have some news;
hopefully you'll be getting out soon. There's been a push by a few of
us to get you out. It will take a little time. Some strings will have
to be pulled. But many people are nervous about you staying here,
many people that we both work with.”
“And
I thought, you were out of the goodness of your heart.” Rouan
cracked a smile.
“I
am.”
“Sorry
about that. I know there was no reason for you to come.”
“No
one wants you here. You could become a big embarrassment.”
“I
had no idea that anyone except my family had given my situation a
second thought,” Rouan said.
“You've
been a worry to so many. Not because they care about you. They care
about the damage that can be done to their careers.”
“How?
That I know drug smugglers? Who would be surprised by that?”
“Come
on, don't be naive. You know exactly who you have been working for
all these years.”
“Who?
Dick?”
“One
more thing, you're real lucky to have Frenot. He’s a good man,”
“You've
spoken to Frenot?”
“Yes.”
“What
did he say?”
“I
told him, I was an old friend of yours. An old friend of the family,
I made it clear that I did not speak for the American government or
the Embassy. He's sharp. He didn't pry too much into my background.
But he understood. He likes you, Robert. As do I. If only you weren't
such a fuck up. Hang tight.”
Day
after day, Rouan watched the reports on TV as the sons of poor
immigrants set cars ablaze in the suburbs of Paris. A month earlier,
he watched as Hurricane Katrina struck in the United States, leaving
bodies floating in the streets of New Orleans, Homeland security,
FEMA, what a joke, Rouan thought. Then news came of the London subway
bombings. The war continued in Iraq with more kidnappings, beheadings
and terror, children maimed, orphaned and killed while the remains of
U.S. soldiers were flown home in body bags. The scandal of Abu Ghraib
and the controversy of detaining combatants in Guantanamo Bay was
debated incessantly (Rouan thought about them often as he sat in his
own cell). Why couldn't Bush and Company realize that for every human
rights violation, misguided missile and collateral damage, the
killing of innocent civilians, terrorism was fomented rather than
stopped? America was not safer because of these actions but
endangered by them. Rouan watched it all on the TV in his cell.
When
did the world go so gray? Rouan would ask himself. When did it all go
so bad? Was it after the war began in Iraq? But which one? The one
that ended with half naked Iraqis waving dirty, white flags in the
desert, or the one that would not end even after the death of Saddam
Hussein? Or maybe it all began to go bad (for the United States at
least) with the war in Vietnam—whole villages consumed by fire, the
jungle itself decimated by napalm and Agent Orange? Or was that the
fault of television seeing all that death sandwiched between
commercials for Mister Clean, Ultrabrite toothpaste and Wonder Bread
on the evening news? He was high on his soap box now (even if no one
was listening except for the phantoms in his own mind). And what
about him? He, too, had fabricated a hoax. The CIA had misled Colin
Powell about Iran's weapons of mass destruction and he had tried to
do the same with plans he'd claimed to have found. Was he any
different than the CIA when they led America into war based on a lie?
No, he thought, he was no different. He had put his own ego and
wishful thinking ahead of the truth just as his country had used the
specter of weapons of mass destruction to invade Iraq.
Rouan
began having a recurring dream. In the dream he saw flashes of a
future catastrophe, the dream becoming increasingly more vivid and
real as the days passed. The voices, the faces, the figures, loomed
like giants in his mind. His imagination once again took over. In the
dream it all started with just a sound, a sound that seemed to
surface out of nowhere with a kind of warbling in his head. The
warbling was joined by human voices. And then the voices took shape.
He saw men dressed in Air Force uniforms descending into a capsule, a
kind of control room that they entered after opening a Boeing blast
door (Rouan had once seen pictures of one in a book). After this,
there was a countdown, and then the flash of missiles as they emerged
out of the earth. After he awoke from the dream, he could not let go
of what it was that he saw.
Rouan
decided he would begin attending NA meetings once he was released.
Frenot was now optimistic that he could get him out on reduced
charges. It seemed that Pat's promise of securing his release was
bearing fruit, though Rouan could never be sure of what was going on
behind the scenes. He only knew what Frenot told him. Perrout had
softened. He'd reluctantly accepted that Rouan would not change his
mind and testify against Hassan. He must also have become aware that
Hassan was no longer peddling drugs. That Hassan was no longer a
player in the drug trade.
Still,
Rouan kept his expectations low. High expectations and big promises
no longer fit into my new outlook on things. In the past, he made
promises and then let everyone down (including himself). The future,
he'd given up on predicting its outcome. If everything was all mapped
out, if everything was certain, what of free will? He was not a
puppet walking in step to some kind of predictable destiny. No, life
was not about mapped out plans, the products of wishful thinking, he
thought. Sometimes we stumble, sometimes we fall, he said to himself,
the best of plans get scuttled and a new destiny, a new path emerges.
He thought wishes were okay up to a point. But when they become a way
of avoiding reality, then they became counterproductive. He would now
have to unlearn what he had perfected in the way of rationalizations
and lies; lies that he once wore like a tightly fitted mask.
Rouan
began to meditate daily. He engaged in an informal study of the Koran
with other inmates. He did, however, reject the theology of death,
the radicalized version of Islam that was popular in the prison; he
had developed his own views. He was becoming a bit of a mystic,
reading Sufi poets when he could get a copy of their works from the
prison library and when these texts weren't available he made due
with Saint John of the Cross. He loved the poetry but was not quite
ready to accept the notion of a transcendent and loving God. But he
had gotten in touch with something, something that he could not yet
define. At the very least he was getting to know himself for the
first time in his life.
As
Rouan prepared for his biweekly shower, Karim was nervous. This was
odd, Rouan thought. But then again Karim had been acting strange for
some time. Rouan's request to move to another cell had been denied by
the authorities. Rouan knew that Karim had been spreading rumors
about him (that he was an American spy) and in so doing had
endangered his life. But at that moment nothing was bothering Rouan.
He was feeling better than he had in a long time. The night before he
had had a new and wonderful dream he could now focus on. In it, he
was on his way back to Houston on a Air France jet. The clouds
outside the window of the jet were white and beautiful (he thought he
could make out the shape of a white horse). In the dream, the
prosecutor had dropped all the charges. He was going home. He and
Jennifer were getting back together. He would have his family and his
freedom back once again. He interpreted the dream to be a sign of
good things to come.
Once
Rouan made it downstairs to the showers, he stripped off his clothes.
He walked over and turned on the shower. Two men, a Pakistani and a
Moroccan, approached him. He thought it was odd that they both were
fully dressed. There were no guards in sight. Puzzled, but not
frightened, Rouan turned off the shower and began to walk out. Just
as he passed the Pakistani, the Moroccan produced a lead pipe and
struck him on the side of my head. He touched the wound with his
hand. He glanced at his hand and saw that it was bloody. The Moroccan
swung again at Rouan with the pipe. Rouan lifted up his right forearm
in defense and it was shattered by the blow. Rouan tried to stand as
he reached out toward his attacker. Rouan's bloody hands wrapped
around the Moroccans neck and he began choking him. Rouan's right arm
was almost useless and the pain was unbearable. The Pakistani then
jumped on Rouan and pulled him off the Moroccan. The Pakistani picked
up the lead pipe and brought it down hard on Rouan's head. The
Pakistani and the Moroccan picked up Rouan's body and tied his neck
to a shower head with a piece of cloth. They then turned the shower
on and washed away the blood.
Rouan
was conscious but could not move. He was floating, hovering between
worlds. He went back to the dream of the white horse. Marie appeared
amidst a giant white cloud. She held her baby in her arms. She smiled
so beautifully. She was so happy. The dream cheered Rouan up.
Somehow, he believed, the future was out there waiting for him. The
horse was so beautiful. When he petted its white mane and soft neck,
the horse closed its eyes in response. He noticed that his own hair
had turned white and that the horse and he were a part of each other.
He did not know rationally how this could be. Then a young woman
appeared above him dressed in a white wedding gown at the top of a
long staircase in a grand castle. Her face radiated joy and light. It
was his daughter, Terry. She threw a bouquet of flowers. Rouan
reached out and caught the flowers. He was quite embarrassed since he
was the father of the bride. It was a sign that he, too, would soon
be married. Then Terry, Marie and the baby vanished and Rouan's mind
went blank and he fell into a deep sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rouan
awoke in a hospital bed in a room he did not recognize, in a place he
did not know. He had no idea where he was. He felt like he'd been
crawling uphill out of the darkness for ages, digging himself from
out of a dark cave far below the earth. He was exhausted from the
climb. For some time (he did not know exactly for how long) he could
make out the outline of a kind of reality (a dreamscape really) but
no more. He could hear voices, sounds, and at times could understand
what was being said. But he couldn't put it all together. It was all
a blur, one endless night of shadows and sounds. It was as if he was
buried under a great weight, and the way forward was blocked. His
awakening was gradual. There were flashes of awareness. The outside
world was in darkness. Even so, a nurse noticed a change in him. She
brought in several other nurses and a doctor. A light flashed in his
eye and after that flash everything changed, the world opened up. He
reacted involuntarily. He tried to speak. The doctor was startled. He
smiled. With great effort Rouan raised his arm slightly. His head
would not move; it seemed to be anchored to his pillow. He looked
round the room using just his eyes. Everyone was amazed. He'd come
back from the dead. But for Rouan everything seemed unreal; he was
unaccustomed to the world that he'd awakened to.
As
the days passed, Rouan began communicating in short sentences with
the nurses in French. Rouan was told he had been in a coma. When he
looked at his withered arms and legs, he thought he must have been in
a terrible accident. He had little recall of the blow to his head.
Finally, he was given a mirror. He could not believe what he saw. He
was an old man, wrinkled and gray. It was a shock. He recognized his
features, his eyes; the shape of his jaw but his skin seemed paler
and had aged. As his strength increased, he was allowed to move about
in a wheelchair. Finally, it was disclosed to him that he had been in
a coma for over thirty years. He had so many questions. It was all so
much like a dream. It was like waking up after a long sleep. But it
was impossible to comprehend that years had gone by rather than
hours. What about his family? What about his court case? Would he be
returned to prison? No, he was told his case had been dismissed
decades before. In fact, one of the nurses told him that the hospital
had gotten in touch with his former lawyer, Jean-Marc Frenot.
Frenot
had aged but still was fit, agile. His attitude toward Rouan had
changed, the skepticism was gone. There was a look of compassion and
respect when he gazed into Rouan's eyes.
Frenot
shook his head and smiled, “How are you feeling Robert?” He never
had used Rouan's first name before.
“I
am very tired. I feel that I've been packed away in an attic
gathering dust for ages.”
“We
have both gathered some dust.” Frenot smiled. “You are lucky to
be alive.”
“It
is so strange. It seems as if we were speaking just a few days ago.
But I know that isn't true.”
“No
one expected that you would recover.”
“Do
you know anything about my family in the United States?” Rouan
asked.
Frenot
had expected this question but Rouan sensed it was difficult for him
to answer and not necessarily because he did not have an answer but
because there was something unpleasant that he wanted to keep from
Rouan.
Frenot
sighed: “I was in touch with both your ex-wife and mother.”
“Have
you heard from them recently?”
“No.”
Frenot looked away.
Rouan
could see that Frenot was wounded by the question.
“There
is something more. Tell me.”
“Robert,
no one believed you. We should have listened.” As Frenot said this,
a weight seemed to have lifted from his soul.
“What
do you mean? What does this have to do with my family?” In the back
of Rouan's mind, a horrible thought was taking shape, but he wasn't
sure what it all meant. He was confused.
“The
plans you discovered.”
“What
are you talking about, the plans?” Rouan was baffled.
“About
the tactical nuclear weapon that you described,” Frenot answered,
“That
was a product of my overactive imagination”
“Made
up or not, they were prophetic. Somehow the system broke down. The
computers in the United States indicated an imminent attack. There is
strong evidence that the initial attack on Washington DC was a
tactical nuclear weapon and not a missile. When I first learned of
that, I thought back to the weapon that you had described. I went
back and reviewed your notes. I asked myself if there could have been
some truth in what you described. Was it something more than a
hallucination? I asked myself over and over again. I became convinced
that the first explosion was a tactical nuclear weapon similar to the
one you documented.”
“I
don't understand what you are saying. Someone used tactical weapons.”
“Initially,
the United States in its confusion, after Washington was hit,
released several ICBMs. This brought on a counterattack from China.
Over a dozen U.S. cities were struck before anyone realized it was
all a horrible mistake.”
Rouan
hesitated, afraid to ask the next question. He dreaded Frenot's
response. “What cities?
“The
worst of it,” Frenot paused, “Houston was hit.” Frenot shook
his head. “Along with Houston, a dozen more cities were hit.
Fortunately, the bombings stopped before the whole country, the whole
world for that matter, was left in ruins. A moment of sanity, I
suppose, if one can call it that.”
“What
about my family?”
A
look of sadness crossed Frenot's face. “I'm so sorry. After the
bombing, I did not hear from anyone in your family.”
“But
many people survived?”
“Yes,
many people survived. Many cities remained intact. They weren't
targeted by the bombs or rather the bombing stopped before they were
hit. But the bombings were just the beginning of the nightmare for
America. For weeks, for months, even years, many more perished from
radioactive sickness. What remained of the country, of the government
was in shock, paralyzed. Washington DC was gone. There were wars of a
kind between various factions, and then came well-armed battles for
control by profiteers. Different parts of the country set up their
own forms of government. But nobody was in control for long. That has
changed in some parts of the country now. Armed militias, police, are
paid for by the big companies. But there is no justice in the way
they rule. There is order, but no justice.”
“How
did this happen?”
“No
one knows what exactly happened. Some say there was a computer
malfunction. Several cities in both Russia and China were hit. Some
have claimed that the Chinese had planted a computer virus in the
Strategic American Command, and this caused a malfunction and
missiles were prematurely fired. But the damage in Russia and China
was nothing compared to the United States. Actually, the United
States sent out very few missiles. But retaliation came before anyone
had a chance to catch their breath. Much of the old cold war
mentality was still in place, the hair trigger effect. My God, the
world still had its finger on the button.”
So
it finally happened, Rouan thought, the thing that no one wanted to
face. The monster, the Frankenstein of the nuclear age, had come down
on the world and unleashed its wrath. Rouan had grown pale, his upper
lip quivered with emotion.
“I
believe, someone affiliated with the Shining Ones initiated the first
tactical attack. The Shining Ones are a terrorist group. You even
used that phrase in your notebook,
the Shining Ones. This is what made the plans you discovered so
important. I have no definitive proof of this. I have your notebook.
It was given to me after you were attacked.”
“You
kept my notebook all this time? But why?”
“Remember
you were in a coma. I was the attorney of record. Your personal
belongings were my responsibility.”
“I
understand. But what I wrote was a complete fabrication. There was no
truth to it. None of it was real. I was very sick. I lived in a
fantasy world of drugs and delusions. I imagined I could save the
world. Well, I didn't save anybody.”
“Your
fantasies were a foreshadowing of what was to come. What you saw was
all too real. Proof? An entire continent is in ruins. Your country is
gone, or at least as far as you once knew it. Those that have
survived live a miserable existence.”
“Is
it that bad?”
“Yes.
“But
how?”
“My
mind keeps going back to that initial explosion in Washington DC. It
occurred a full fifteen minutes before the ICBMs were launched. No
one knows the size exactly of the initial explosion, since Washington
was hit a second time by a much larger warhead. There was a nuclear
exchange between India and Pakistan. Wars broke out from one side of
the world to the other. The whole world has been marked, turned
upside down, wounded by this catastrophe, famine, bio-terrorism on an
unimaginable scale.” Frenot let out a breath. “We'll have time to
talk about this later.”
“My
family, my country.” Rouan was horrified. It was more than he could
bear. Frenot stayed with Rouan while he took in all of the news,
sitting silently with him. Frenot even held Rouan's hand at one
point.
Frenot
had written several articles in Le Monde. Many pointed out
that tactical nuclear weapons weren't used but rather Inter
Continental Ballistic Missiles. They went on to say that the tragedy
was not caused by terrorists but by a system destined to end in
catastrophe. Frenot replied to this in several more articles
(stirring up quite a debate) that Rouan's hypothesis and notes only
illuminated the dark path that the terrorists were on and pointed out
the initial attack, the trigger, for the conflagration that followed
was a rogue tactical nuclear weapon.
All
this speculation disturbed Rouan. Long ago he'd accepted
responsibility for the hoax he concocted. Rouan thought of the old
adage in intelligence analysis: that there is some truth to be
discovered even in a lie. Rouan was consoled with the realization
that there a kind of inevitability to it all. If the weapons exist,
someone would use them. Rouan then remembered something else. The
dream he had shortly before being attacked in jail. He remembered
every detail of the dream: the countdown, the Boeing blast door, and
finally the firing of the missiles. Rouan was convinced that the
dream was somehow prophetic. This was more than coincidence. He could
come to no other conclusion. Why had he been handed this vision? He
consoled with the thought that he wasn't the only one who foresaw
this almost inevitable consequence of the U.S. nuclear arsenal and
the arms race. A race that no one could win but everyone could lose.
Many had warned about it over and over again from the very beginning.
But no listened. Or if they listened, they took no action. The world
had been in a state of denial and been awakened from its sleeping
state (just as he had) by the sound of thunder in the skies. The shoe
had dropped and now there was no going back. It is a wonder that the
whole world hadn't been reduced to ashes and smoke.
In
the following days, Frenot visited Rouan often. He gave him more
details on what had gone on while he slept all those years. He gave
him a kind of history lesson. He explained that electric power
functioned sporadically in the United States in the years after the
bombings (leaving pockets of the country without power). With a
worthless dollar, commerce on a large scale became impossible.
Biological weapons were released; no one had a reasonable explanation
why. It was madness. There was civil unrest, massive starvation. What
was once the United States was now under quarantine; in the
beginning, martial law was declared and the remnants of the federal
government existed but were powerless exercise any control, and with
no federal banking system and an inability to collect taxes, became
irrelevant and ultimately collapsed. The country had been broken up
into territories, counties, city-states. The United Nations was now
headquartered in Geneva. Rouan could not believe what he was told. He
asked himself over and over again, how was it that he had survived
but his country had not?
While
in a vegetative state, Rouan had been housed just outside of Paris
along the Marne River in Champigny. Though he had been in the coma,
the nurses had exercised his limbs, so his muscles had not completely
wasted away. Still his limbs were fragile, thin and weak. He was told
he would never walk again; that his legs would never be strong enough
again to carry the weight of his upper body. His heart had been
weakened but his lungs were in good condition, normal for someone his
age. They could have just left him to die. But Frenot and others saw
to it that he had been properly looked after. Rouan was so grateful.
He learned that while the blow to his head did cause unconsciousness,
it did not cause the coma (or rather what was diagnosed after his
awakening as a minimally conscious state). The coma was ultimately
caused by an infection in his brain from his intravenous drug use.
The infection eventually cleared up and after a change of medication,
he awoke. It would have been relatively easy with the right
medication to bring him out of his sleeping state (once the infection
in his brain cleared up) but everyone assumed that his condition was
hopeless; that his condition was irreversible. Who would have guessed
that his grave condition could have changed so miraculously? Brain
scans were done in the beginning, but bleeding from the blow to his
head hid the underlying infection from those radioactive eyes. The
good news, of course, was that he survived at all. The doctors told
him there was no sign of brain damage.
Some
days Rouan would fall into a deep depression that he could not climb
out of (no matter how hard he tried). A dark cloud covered his world,
time stopped and once again he was back in the Santé behind its
bleak, gray walls, and once again its ghosts came back to haunt him.
The United States had been taken to its knees—and so had he. But
when we thought of his own descent into the depths, he would begin to
recall the day of his rebirth, of his resurrection, and he found some
consolation there, some hope, and gradually he would come out of his
funk. There must be some reason for his survival. Other times, he'd
find himself sitting beside by the Marne River looking out at that
green water and he'd think about the life that it held; the fish, the
plants, the turtles. Then he'd think about the future. And that gave
him hope. Hope for a new world, a world without sickness, addiction,
wars and bombs. He hoped for that better world. He prayed that he
could be a part of it. He felt a responsibility. He wanted to make up
for all the mistakes he'd made. He wanted to make amends to one and
all.
While
Rouan had been physically debilitated and disabled by his long sleep,
his ability to communicate had not been diminished. He had begun
writing in his journal in long hand. It was good therapy. But he
tired easily (even after such a long sleep) and found it necessary to
dictate his notes, his thoughts, to a nurse. She dutifully took down
done all that he said (even at times laboriously transcribing his
handwritten notes). Her name was Camille Demoulin. She was in her
mid-forties. She had auburn hair and an alabaster complexion. She was
a great beauty but without pretense or affectation. She carried out
her duties with grace and humility. She looked after Rouan's every
need (as she has been assigned exclusively to him since his
awakening).
Things
began to bloom in Champigny. Rouan spent as much time as possible
outdoors on the grounds of the center usually accompanied by Camille.
The air was cool and fresh and the world was turning green once more.
The blossoms hung from the bushes and were heavenly both to smell and
to look at. On those days in particular Rouan would wonder again and
again if any of what drifted before his eyes was real. How had all of
this come to pass? Rouan had a hard time putting his mind around it
all.
One
day Rouan asked Camille how long she had worked at the home. She
looked him square in the eyes and smiled: “I've been here eighteen
months and I've known about you just as long. You know, you are kind
of a legend in Paris and elsewhere. There have been several newspaper
articles written about you and Monsieur Frenot.”
“Oh
Frenot was mentioned.” Rouan laughed.
“You
don't know, do you?” She looked at him oddly.
“Know
what?” Rouan asked.
“About
Monsieur Frenot, he is a very important person in the government.”
“Important
in the government, how so?”
“He
was the top assistant to the former president. They say Monsieur
Frenot might one day be the president of France.”
“If
I could vote, I would vote for him.” Rouan stated.
“Monsieur
Frenot did not tell you?”
“Another
surprise, I suppose.”
“You
are a citizen of France. In order for your care to continue, French
citizenship was necessary. Monsieur Frenot took care of it long ago.”
“Oh,
my father would be proud, his son a French citizen. I must thank
Jean-Marc.” Rouan had begun calling Frenot by his first name. After
all, they had known each other for such a long time and had been
through so much.
“Jean-Marc
Frenot, your good friend the next president of France,” Camille
laughed. “You will invite me to the inaugural ball.” She winked.
“Whatever
you want Camille. Just don't ask me to dance.”
“I
don't know Robert; you are getting stronger every day. We might have
to include dance lessons in your rehabilitation.” She put her hand
on Rouan's shoulder and smiled so tenderly. That touch brought the
world and all its joys back to him. After so much evil, so much loss
of life, human tenderness had survived.
Rouan
had known Frenot as the young lawyer who had taken up his case. Taken
up the case of a seemingly delusional madman, murderer even, and in
the end showed such affection and concern for him. It was not hard to
comprehend that Frenot had made such a success of himself, Rouan
thought. He was always bright, capable and seemed to know how to
broker a deal and make peace even with fools (Rouan included himself
as one of those fools that Frenot had dealt with. Rouan realized he
had not been an easy client.).
Rouan
teased Frenot when they met next: “They tell me that you are to be
the next president of France.”
“The
rumors are greatly exaggerated. I suppose it was that pretty nurse of
yours who put those ideas in your head.”
“I
suppose so. Or did she say you were holding out to be crowned king.
There hasn't been a king in France for several centuries. Maybe it's
time.” Rouan laughed.
“It
is good to hear you laugh, Robert.” Frenot smiled. “I see you too
still think big. But seriously, I have no interest in being out front
in politics. I prefer to stay behind the scenes. Which brings me to
another point, if you think you’re up to it, how would you like to
visit the United Nations in Geneva? I have someone I would like for
you to meet.”
“I
would love to go to Geneva. Who is it that you would like me to
meet?”
“Assistant
Secretary General Christophe Tousant. He is a friend of mine, an
amazing man.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frenot
arrived with his wife, Nathalie, at the convalescent home in a white
Mercedes Benz van for the trip to Geneva. It had a wheelchair lift
and an engine powered by a revolutionary fuel cell. Rouan had never
met Nathalie Frenot. She was a lovely, articulate woman (a redhead,
he would never have guessed). She was slightly taller than her
husband and seemed to love him very much. Camille came along to look
after Rouan's needs. It was a lovely drive. They discussed much.
Madame Frenot mentioned the poverty and hardship for those living in
the Q.
“The
Q, what is the Q?” Rouan asked.
A
look of pain flashed across Camille's face.
“Jean-Marc
has not explained?” Madame Frenot seemed puzzled, surprised, that
Rouan had not been filled in by Frenot on this highly controversial
political issue. “Robert, the Q is short for the quarantined area.
It is an area that covers all of North America; it stretches from the
Mexican territory to Canada. Since the Canadian government still
exists, the Canadian dollar is the currency of choice except in the
Mexican territories where the Mexican peso is used. There have been a
number of viruses, some airborne in the past that spread in Asia, and
Europe and millions died. Every human being residing in North America
was contaminated, a significant portion of the population perished.
Even plant life, beef, poultry carried lethal viruses. After that,
all agricultural goods were banned. Strict restrictions on travel
were imposed. Anyone traveling into the Q cannot return to France or
anywhere in the EU without a wait of six months in a neutral area
where doctors monitor and examine the traveler for any sign of
contagion.”
“I
understand now. Yes, Jean-Marc explained some of this to me. However,
the abbreviation Q for the quarantined area is new to me. What about
those born and living in the Q? What restrictions do they have
regarding travel?” Rouan asked.
“It
is not permitted. This is one of the issues that we will discuss with
Assistant Secretary Tousant.” Frenot explained.
When
they arrived in Geneva, Rouan was astonished. The city was so
beautiful, so vibrant. The fountain at the mouth of Lake Geneva still
sprayed hundreds of gallons of water high into the air just as he
remembered it. Everyone looked prosperous, happy, and content.
Brightly colored streetcars and automobiles lined the roads. Geneva
seemed to be the ideal city, a dream city, lodged in the center of a
kind of Utopia. Everywhere people bustled about often carrying
shopping carts loaded with goods. Rouan found the city cosmopolitan
and culturally diverse (the United Nations served as the headquarters
of a kind of world government; so it wasn't surprising to see so many
races and nationalities among the populace). Orthodox Jews shared the
same shops with Syrians, Iraqis and Iranians. The style of dress
varied: some wore Indians saris while others were adorned in
traditional African and Arab garments.
It
was hard to believe that the horrors Rouan had heard about had
happened at all. It was like a horror story he had read long ago but
couldn't quite recall. Or a nightmare that he had woken from and was
relieved that it wasn't real. But Rouan knew that the horrors of the
past were true, that there were cities in America where the wounds
were still fresh, and the nightmare was all too real.
Rouan
thought their hotel was fabulous. It had a marvelous view of the lake
and the surrounding city. Rouan shared adjoining rooms with Camille.
This was necessary since he could not yet get from his bed to his
wheelchair on his own. Shortly after arriving, Rouan and Camille took
in the view together. “It is so lovely,” Camille said as she
looked out the lake.
“Yes,
one of the great cities of the world I think.” A note of sorrow
could just be detected in Rouan's voice. Somewhere in the back of his
mind, he mourned for the cities in America that were now gone (or
radically changed). Camille sensed this note of sorrow and grasped
his hand. She said nothing. She didn't have to.
Assistant
Secretary Tousant knew of Rouan's physical limitations, so it was
arranged that they would meet with him in a private suite at the
hotel. When Tousant entered the room to greet them, Rouan was taken
aback by his appearance. Tousant was in his eighties, he suffered
from a congenital hunchback that had worsened with age. He wore a
long, white Indian garment of some sort, a kind of sari, and sandals.
He had long gray hair and a beard. He radiated with a kind of glow, a
kind of aura. He smiled and greeted Frenot first with a warm
handshake. He then kissed Madame Frenot in the French manner.
He
looked at Rouan with a smile: “So here we have the awakened
sleeper. I have heard much about you from my friend Monsieur Frenot.”
Rouan
looked up at this dear old man and grasped his hand. When their eyes
met, a flash of electricity passed between them (Rouan found it hard
to define, but it was of another world). Tousant then greeted Camille
and kissed her on both cheeks. Rouan could see that she, too, was
moved by this otherworldly old man. They all moved to a sitting area.
“On
our ride here, I told Robert about the Q and some of the problems the
people face there.”
“Yes,
we have lived through tragic times. We have seen the worst of
humanity. Life in the Q is not humane, is not right. It is a living
hell.”
“But
everything seems so perfect here. Why can't something be done?”
Rouan asked.
“It
is lovely here and this is why many want to protect our paradise here
in Switzerland from the horrors found in the Q. In a word, people are
afraid. They fear contamination and it is not a completely unfounded
fear. The world has suffered through many hard times while you have
slept Monsieur Rouan.”
“Robert,
Assistant Secretary General Tousant wants to open travel and trade
between the Q and the rest of the world.” Frenot interjected.
“Goods are prohibited from the entering the euro zone. Many fear
biological and radioactive contamination. Many believe that the
survivors in the Q have developed immunity to the many viruses that
have been unleashed in years past. But tests have been done and there
is no evidence of this. In addition, much of the food grown in the Q
has been tested and proven safe. There is just terrible prejudice.
Even Secretary General Devereux opposes lifting the embargo and he is
supported by both Russia and China on the Security Council. They have
veto power.”
“And
who replaced the United States on the Security Council?” Rouan
asked.
“India,”
Frenot replied. “And India is for lifting the embargo as is Great
Britain and France, the remaining permanent members of the Security
Council. But there are powerful factions amongst the other United
Nation members who vehemently oppose it. Some of it is out of fear
and some are swayed by the large corporations who control the Q.”
“It
would seem the United Nations has lost its way. Its mandate is to
help those in need, in poverty; it does not exist to protect wealthy
countries or wealthy corporations but the poor,” Tousant stated
simply.
“'That
is true.” Frenot affirmed.
“I
understand you lost your family in America. My family also was lost.
I had a wife and two grown children in New York City in the first
bombing. I was away. Actually, I was here in Geneva when I heard the
horrible news.” A look of deep sorrow passed across Tousant's face.
“I
am so sorry to hear that,” Rouan said.
“I
want to thank you Monsieur Rouan personally for all you did in trying
to stop those attacks in your own way. Monsieur Frenot has written
and told me personally about what you discovered and how hard you
tried to warn others.” Tousant said with such deep sincerity that
Rouan was overwhelmed.
“It
was a hoax that I dreamed up to make myself a hero and to secure my
release from prison,” Rouan confessed.
“The
plans could have been taken up by another group, the idea could have
been taken up by Iran or North Korea. I'm sure there were many plans,
diagrams drawn up, before the actual execution. What you saw was much
more than a delusion; it was a vision, a premonition, even if it was
only an act of the imagination it was an accurate warning. But as I
say, it is hard to pinpoint who was involved,” Tousant declared.
“At
that time everything I believed was a lie. I lied to others and
especially to myself. Even if I had actually discovered something, no
one would believe anything I said. But then again, inquiries were
made. Nothing was found to indicate I had actually discovered
anything,” Rouan said.
“You
suffered from a debilitating condition; drug addiction is a terrible
malady Monsieur Rouan. You did what you could. You tried to warn
everyone even if what you saw was no more than a vision. There is no
need to blame you for anything,” Tousant said softly.
At
that moment, Rouan saw a tear well up in Camille's eye. She tried to
hide it and then wipe it away. But he saw it. She looked down at him
and then squeezed his hand and gave him a tender look. Tousant also
saw the tear and looked at both Rouan and Camille tenderly.
“Ultimately,
that those monstrous weapons had been stockpiled in such quantities
is the real reason for the tragedy. I am afraid the blame can be
placed nowhere else,” Tousant said.
“I
agree.” Rouan replied.
“Now
that you have made such a miraculous recovery you are becoming even
better known. I have read many of the articles by Monsieur Frenot. If
they help the world see the dangers of nuclear weapons in the hands
of not only terrorists but anyone, any government, then they will
have served a good purpose. And the added dimension of your story, of
your struggle, Monsieur Rouan, is an inspiration to us all. Monsieur
Frenot has turned you into a popular figure. All of Geneva, it seems,
has heard about your visit. This town is buzzing with chatter.
Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of the onetime spy and now awakened
prophet. The man who slept while the world nearly destroyed itself. I
won't call you a celebrity since you are much more than that. Your
story is much more important than the latest love affair of a matinee
idol,” Tousant said
“I
hadn't realized that my recovery was known to so many people. You are
very kind. And very kind of you to invite us all here to your
wonderful country, but to be honest, I perpetrated a hoax. I accused
a retired professor of coming up with a plan to use tactical nuclear
weapons. I fabricated evidence, diagrams. I'm afraid Monsieur Frenot
has fallen for my fantasies. One thing is for certain nuclear weapons
were not invented in a Paris apartment or in my own mind. The whole
world knew of the danger and no one did anything to stop it,” Rouan
declared.
Frenot
shrugged and looked to the ground.
“Monsieur
Rouan. We are old horses now and we must work together.” Tousant
said with a gleam in his eye. He had something in mind when he said
this, but what it was Rouan could not guess.
Everything
in Rouan's life had this mysterious quality. This new world was
filled with more questions than answers. Later after they returned to
their rooms for some rest, Rouan asked Camille why she was so moved
by Tousant's remarks regarding addiction.
“I
worked in a treatment center,” she replied. Then her expression
grew grave. “There is something that I want to tell you. It has
been on my mind for some time.” Camille looked unsure of herself.
“What
is it? You can tell me.”
“I
was assigned to you after your awakening to keep an eye on you. I
hate secrets. I'm no spy. But because of your history the doctors
thought it was for the best.”
“It
is only reasonable to keep tabs on me with my background. Right now,
I have no desire to use drugs; I have already missed out on too much
of life. I have slept too long. But the desire could return. So, I am
grateful, I have you to turn to. There is one thing, something that
has been on my mind.
“Yes.
Tell me.”
“I
have been keeping this to myself. But I have to tell someone. I
sometimes wonder if any of this is real. It all seems like a dream.”
“What
do you mean?” Camille asked.
“I
awoke in a completely different world. Everything had changed. But
what is so strange is this new world seems to be an extension of my
own mind. I once believed there would be bombings in the United
States. In fact, I was obsessed with it to the point of fabricating
the plans for it myself. And it came to pass. I wanted to free of
prison and that came to pass. I wanted to find love,” with this
statement Rouan's voice trailed off momentarily.
“Go
on,” Camille grasped Rouan's hand and gazed intently at him.
“So,
it makes me wonder about the reality of it all. Is it all some kind
of fiction my mind has invented? But it is more real than just a
dream. In a sense, I did die. No one would question that. But I
wonder about this place, this time that I've been brought back to.
Sometimes I wonder if it is a fabrication, a fantasy. I've always had
trouble recognizing what was true from what was false. I've always
had a rich imagination. In fact, you know my medical record. That I
have a history, that I was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. That I
am prone to fits of grandiosity. So I have doubts about everything.
And if all of this is true, why do I question its validity? Has there
been some damage done to my brain? Is my present reality a delusion
of some kind?”
“Robert
to wake up after so many years would be a shock to anyone. It would
normal to question things, to question what is real.”
Rouan
sighed, “Yes you are right. It has been bothering me. I'm glad I
could share it with you.” Rouan took Camille's hand and held it
tenderly.
“You
can share everything with me, Robert. Never doubt that.” The look
in Camille's eyes gave Rouan confidence not only in her but in
himself; he believed that no matter what happened, everything would
work out, that he could face the truth and accept it, whatever the
truth turned out to be. Rouan felt better after making this admission
to Camille. She had a point, he thought. After such a long period of
unconsciousness one’s sense of reality would be radically changed.
It was funny, he thought, he could not remember any dreams while he
was asleep all those years. There were flashes of something, but he
could not say what it was. Maybe some sound, a voice, an image,
penetrated deep into his brain and remained unprocessed. Rouan was
sure of one thing this new world that he had entered into was
fascinating, so full of strange and at times terrible events. Rouan
could not shake off all that he learned about Christophe Tousant (the
most amazing man he had ever met; he thought of Tousant as a kind of
philosopher king). But Rouan's impression of him didn't end with
their meeting at the hotel. At the last minute, they were invited to
a speech Tousant was to make to members of the Security Council. It
was there that Rouan learned how strong the opposition was to both
Tousant and the people that made up the Q. And it was there that the
most momentous turn of events took place.
Camille
and Rouan arrived in the conference hall. Tousant walked up to the
podium and began his remarks. He looked out at the crowd and smiled,
his gentle eyes scanning the room. “Today we face many difficult
issues. But none is greater than the problems facing those who live
in the Q. We close our eyes and hearts to those who suffer from
poverty, the whims of corporate profiteers, warlords, drug lords and
human traffickers. Contraband goods produced in the Q do find their
way into the euro zone and we use those goods, the fruits of nothing
less than slave labor. Let us not deceive ourselves, the restrictions
we have in place protect no one but criminals and thugs. As we once
again find ourselves living in prosperity, we must not forget those
who still suffer. After this unprecedented history of war and bio
terror, we must tend to the wounded, the disenfranchised. There is no
chance for the colonies in the quarantined area to become
legitimized, to become members of this body, without our support. If
the colonies in the Q do not get the support they deserve, they will
be crushed by greedy men who treat human life cheaply, a commodity to
be bought and sold. The hopes of the people living in the Q will be
tossed aside, their aspirations forgotten. France supported the
original colonies in the old world, and we must support these new
colonies in the new world. With the support of the Secretary General
and this body, we can assure the colonies legitimacy. It is for this
kind of thing that this body was created.”
At
this point, rumblings could be heard throughout the hall. Those
surrounding Secretary General Devereux began whispering in his ear.
The entourage that surrounded Devereux were obviously not happy with
what Tousant was proposing. Secretary General Devereux did not look
well. And not just because he opposed Tousant (and all he said),
there was something else amiss. He looked pale and seemed to be
trembling and became short of breath. He then collapsed, his head
falling back in his chair. The meeting was hastily adjourned and
Secretary General Devereux was placed on a gurney and transported by
ambulance to a hospital a few minutes away. He was pronounced dead on
arrival. This made Christophe Tousant the leading candidate for
Secretary General of the United Nations. Because of Tousant's age, if
Tousant was appointed Secretary General it would be only for the
remaining eighteen months of Devereux's five year term. But with
fierce opposition, Tousant's appointment even for just eighteen
months was by no means a certainty. In less than a month, there would
be a vote.
On
the ride back to Paris from Geneva, Rouan had many questions for
Frenot. He wanted to learn more about Christophe Tousant. Frenot said
that Tousant had brokered the deal that led to the establishment of
the Palestinian state. Israel had made concessions that a few decades
before would have been unthinkable. But the Middle East had tired of
war and wanted to see an end to it. Frenot went on to explain that
Tousant was about to retire from the Security Council because of his
advanced age (but had postponed his retirement in an effort to
persuade the Security Council to open up trade and travel in the Q).
Frenot went on to explain that Tousant was a Zen Buddhist having
spent several years in a Zen monastery in Japan. He met his wife,
Kyoko, there. They had two children and as Tousant himself told him
were killed when two bombs were detonated over New York City. All in
all, over a dozen warheads were triggered within minutes of each
other in Chicago, Los Angeles, Boston, Kansas City, Washington DC,
Philadelphia, Atlanta, San Francisco and of course Houston. Tousant
knew exactly where his family was at the time of their deaths but
Rouan did not. It made him wonder. In the chaos, could they be part
of the disenfranchised millions (refugees in their own land) who
remained in what was once the United States?
“Could
my mother, wife and daughter have survived?” Rouan asked Frenot.
Frenot
thought for a minute and then replied: “In the weeks after the
bombings, contact with the outside world was sporadic. Computer
servers crashed. There were massive power outages from one end of the
country to the other. But in the years since the catastrophe your
wife and mother would have been able to get a message to me.
Considering your mother's age, I would say she did not survive. Your
ex-wife, too, was very keen on checking up on you. When it was
decided that you would be removed from life support, your mother,
your ex-wife and daughter came to France to pay their last respects.
It was decided that it would be too traumatic for your daughter to be
in the room when your life support was removed. So only your mother
was in the room. The doctors, the nurses, were all shocked that you
continued to thrive. Your mother, ex-wife and daughter, were very
happy (they stayed for several more weeks, visiting you every day).
After that, your ex-wife and mother stayed in contact with me, hoping
for another miracle. This is why I feel they did not survive. It is
possible but not likely that your daughter may have survived. But of
course, she was living in Houston at the time of the attack.”
Frenot let out a sigh.
Rouan
took in what Frenot had told him. He was astonished. His family had
come to France to say goodbye. He was pretty sure that was their last
goodbye. He missed his daughter, mother and even his ex-wife
terribly. Before the coma they were separated by an ocean, now they
were separated by time itself, and even more than that, he was alive.
But he held on to the thought, a dim and secret hope that his
daughter Terry might somehow have survived. He did not know why he
clung to this hope. But it seemed to him more than just a hope. He
sensed something. He sensed her presence, and not in some other
world. She was not looking out at him from some other life, some
other dimension; he sensed that they still shared the same planet.
His sense of reality had always been tenuous at best but on this
score, he felt a growing certainty. It was the one thing that he held
on to even as the rest of his beliefs had completely fallen away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After
his awakening, Rouan was moved from where he had been housed with
several other comatose patients. He was placed in a private room at
the convalescent home. He had his own bathroom (wheelchair
accessible), TV and a lovely view of the Marne River. He could write
using a dinner tray in bed or at a small built in desk. He still
needed help getting in and out of bed, but his upper body strength
was improving. He was making progress with his rehabilitation
(fortunately his limitations were physical rather than mental; his
memory and language skills functioned well). There was an exercise
room with a full-time staff.
Frenot
visited once or twice a week and filled Rouan on the latest news out
of Geneva. Tousant had really stirred things up. He presented several
studies that agriculture produced in the Q had no radioactive or
biological contamination. Secondly, he showed that the active virus
that caused the death of millions in the Q was dormant. With proper
testing of food products, the embargo could end. Restrictions on
travel for those living in the Q could also be loosened. Tousant had
secured the full support from the socialist party in France (led by
Frenot who was one of its most important members). Great Britain
voiced opposition. Germany sat on the fence. Italy and the Roman
Catholic Church (with the pope's blessing) were firmly behind these
changes. The Church had long been an advocate for the poor and the
disenfranchised in the Q. Still within the United Nations Security
Council there was a faction that bitterly opposed Tousant and all his
propositions. Next to these contentious issues, the controversial
subject was the establishment or reestablishment of federal rule in
the Q. Namely the group in the Q who called themselves the Colonists;
a group of city states that worked together for the benefit of all;
their leaders wanted to re-establish the constitution and federal
control of a portion of what once was called United States but there
was strong opposition from the corporations that controlled the Q.
One
day, after a visit by Frenot, Rouan asked Camille what she thought
about Tousant and changes that he proposed. She did not reply
immediately, she looked to the ground and then looked up: “You must
understand first why some oppose Tousant. In the last few decades we
have endured many hardships, many horrors. The people in the Q, are
not the only ones who have suffered. We have all suffered. There have
been terrible wars in the Middle East, in Africa and China. There
have been viruses of all kinds (some brought in from the Q) that have
led to plagues even here in France and the euro zone. We have
suffered from famine, the collapse of the banking system, and
bioterror. Now things are finally getting back on track for millions
of people. But we are walking on eggshells. The average person in the
euro zone feels they deserve some peace after so many year of tumult
and war. This catastrophe this fell upon the world. Plagues, famine
and not just in the Q. Starvation right here in France with all its
rich, fertile soil, uncontaminated thus far by radiological
disasters. Why should we risk another outbreak of plague, of war? Why
anger the corporate warlords in the Q? They've controlled the Q with
their weapons of war for so long. If the embargo is lifted, if their
wealth and power is threatened, they will strike back. So it is not
as simple as it seems. There are rumors that the Q is controlled by
the Corporations, a powerful force even here in Geneva. “
“I
hadn't considered retaliation by those controlling life in the Q. But
what you say makes sense. So you do not agree with Tousant?”
“A
minute ago, I was only asking questions that everyone asks and
expressing the fears everyone feels.. But here is my answer. I agree
with Tousant and what he proposes. I agree with the Holy Father. I am
catholic and the church agrees with Tousant. As a Christian, I've
been taught to help those in need. The modern day lepers in the Q are
in need of healing and each one of us must do our part to help the
less fortunate.”
“Yes,
of course, you are a good catholic. I should have known by the cross
around your neck. My wife Jennifer and my daughter were Catholics.”
Camille
was startled. “Your wife and daughter were catholic, really? The
Church keeps a database of all Catholics in the Q. In some sectors of
the Q, there has been much persecution of Catholics. Those who
control the Q, fear the Church. If your wife and daughter somehow
survived, there may be a record of them.”
“How
can I access these records?”
“We
will need Monsieur Frenot's help with this.”
Rouan
contacted Frenot by phone. “Is it true there is a database of
Catholics living in the Q?”
“Yes,
that is true.” Frenot replied.
“My
daughter and Jennifer were Catholics. If one or both survived, there
may be a record.”
“What
is your daughter’s full name again?”
“Teresa
Rouan.”
“I
will get right on it and have someone check for you. But Robert don't
get your hopes up too high.”
For
the next few days, Rouan heard nothing. Then Frenot paid him an
unexpected visit. He was smiling. He had good news. “Robert,” he
shouted, “your daughter is alive.”
Rouan
could not believe his ears. “Where, how?” he asked.
“Your
daughter, Teresa, is a nun living in a convent outside of Santa Fe.”
Rouan
was so happy to hear that his daughter was alive. He asked Frenot if
she knew about him and his recovery. Frenot said messages had been
sent to the archbishop in New Mexico. He said that she'd probably
been told by now. Would contact be possible? Rouan asked. Frenot
explained that many churches and religious orders in the Q had
satellite hook ups. But some did not. So they would have to wait and
see.
Word
did in fact reach Rouan's daughter, Terry, regarding the miracle of
her father's recovery. While there was no Internet service at her
convent, there was at a church some twenty miles away that had a
satellite hookup. Once his daughter was provided contact information,
she called him via video phone at the convalescent home. One of the
nurses rushed to Rouan's room, “Monsieur Rouan you have a call. A
lady. She says she is your daughter.”
Rouan
was overwhelmed. He headed over to the video phone. As he approached
the phone, he could see the adult face of his daughter looking out
from the screen. Rouan spotted on look of anticipation on her face as
she awaited her first glimpse of her father after such a long time.
Now a middle-aged woman, she was dressed in the traditional habit of
a Franciscan nun. Her face was dark, tan (she obviously spent time
outdoors). She was beautiful. The most beautiful thing Rouan had ever
seen in all his life. He recognized the child he had once known by
the shape of her brow, her forehead, nose and lips.
As
he approached the camera, she caught a glimpse of him. The tenderest
look of love crossed her face. “Daddy is that you?” she asked.
“It
is me, honey. What is left of your father?” Rouan didn't know why
those particular words came out his mouth. They just did. Their eyes
met and they both were silent for a time. Finally, he asked, “Do
you know what happened to your mother and grandmother?”
The
light in her eyes vanished and she replied, “Daddy, they were in
Houston. They were killed in the bombing.”
“How
were you spared?”
“I
was away at school in Dallas. Dallas was not hit by the bombs.”
“What
happened after the bombings?”
“Total
panic, confusion, the whole nation was in shock. The electricity was
still on. The TV, at least some stations broadcast. But total chaos,
everyone was traumatized. No one knew who to turn to. The country had
lost its center, seemingly its soul. Washington DC was gone, the
president, the vice president, all gone. The Governor of Texas called
on the National Guard. But no one was really in charge. I knew when I
heard Houston was hit, that mom and grandma were gone. It was so
terrible. It was so sad. I was so scared.” She began to weep.
Rouan
began to weep. Finally, he spoke, “it is a miracle that you
survived.”
“Daddy,
I've prayed for you every day. I've missed you so much.”
Rouan
couldn't help but feel that his own miraculous recovery was an answer
to those prayers. He was so grateful to have such a daughter. “So
you've become a nun, I see.”
“Yes,
I am quite happy at the convent with my sisters. We farm, we pray and
we've made a life for ourselves with meaning and dignity.”
“I'm
so proud of you. You've become such a wonderful woman. I've heard how
hard life is in the Q. It must be difficult.”
“We
have endured much. The horrors in the past and the present are
unending.”
“I've
met Christophe Tousant in Geneva. He advocates major new changes, a
lifting of the embargo, an end to the quarantine, an end to the Q.”
“People
here love him. He is our chief advocate and a friend of the Holy
Father.”
“He
has many enemies in the general assembly. Many people in Geneva and
all over the euro zone fear opening the door to the Q and all its
suffering.”
“The
Q has been controlled with guns and biological terror. In the south,
drug lords control the Mexican territories. Many suffer from
addiction in the Q. Children are sold for prostitution and child
labor. The list is endless.”
“I
can't imagine what life has been like for you all these years.”
“I've
been lucky. The Church in one form or another has supported me since.
I thank God for all his graces. I am healthy. How is your health
Daddy?”
“My
legs are weak but I feel well. My thinking is clear. I, too, have
much to be grateful for. I only wish I could give you a hug.”
Terry
put her hand up to the screen and Rouan did the same. They spoke for
more than two hours and agreed to speak again soon. Camille caught
the tail end of their conversation. Rouan introduced them to each
other. Camille called Terry, Sister Teresa. It sounded strange but
was correct. After the conversation, he was wound up, wired, filled
with adrenaline but soon crashed. Camille took him to his room and
helped him into his bed. She kissed him tenderly on the forehead and
said goodnight. He had been blessed with two wonderful women in his
life. He had the friendship of Frenot. What more can a man ask for?
Tousant
sent his congratulations. Along with that, he had a request. He
wanted Rouan to address the United Nations General Assembly. He asked
that Rouan discuss the problems facing those living in the Q. He
hinted that Rouan might talk about what was once the American
government (and its possible restoration in the Q). Rouan was
flattered by this request and agreed to speak. (Rouan's talk would be
the day before the crucial vote on who would be the next Secretary
General.) Both Camille and Frenot were quite excited by the idea of
Rouan speaking to the assembly. Rouan later even told Terry about
this. She asked that he mention the religious persecution faced by
many in the Q. Rouan asked her to forward some personal stories so
that he could include them in his talk.
Rouan
began outlining his talking points and soon had a rough draft ready.
He had several weeks to prepare and come up with a final draft for
his talk in Geneva. He was honored that Tousant had given him this
opportunity. He talked with Terry, Camille and Jean-Marc about what
he should cover. He thought both an appeal to the head and heart
would be in order. A simple appeal to the heart would not be enough
(nor would an appeal just to the head be sufficient). The heart tells
us that we are called to help those in need, he said to himself. The
head tells us we might perish ourselves if he try to save those
drowning in the Q. But here we must think ahead and see that by
helping those in the Q be rid of despots we our ultimately making the
world a safer place. So, he thought, the appeal to the United Nations
must be one of both head and heart.
He
grew tired of thinking of all this. He had been running on a mix of
adrenaline and excitement, but he needed time to reflect and rest. He
would pick up his journal again after some much needed rest. The
world would continue to turn, the sun would continue to rise in the
morning and once again shine on all who bathed in its radiance, he
thought. He did not forget to say a prayer for his newly found
daughter. Even though he did not believe in God, he had begun to pray
(partially to honor his daughter and the vocation she had chosen and
partially because it gave him a sense of serenity and peace). Nor did
he forget to pray for Camille, for Frenot and for the leaders in the
United Nations who have such a grave responsibility, he whispered to
himself. He prayed for the poor souls in the Q (particularly the
children) who suffered from enslavement and unimaginable poverty and
every kind of indignity. Somewhere in the universe, he thought, his
prayers were being heard.
The
arrangements were made for the return trip to Geneva. Once again,
Rouan would be accompanied by Camille and the Frenots. They could
have taken a plane or high-speed train, but they thought it best to
take the white Mercedes Benz van.
Camille
was becoming lovelier and more precious to Rouan each day. Their
relationship had begun as a professional one: one of patient and
nurse. But it had evolved. Rouan realized there was a difference of
age between them, more than twenty years. But because he had slept
during those years, psychologically he felt as he were still in his
forties rather than his seventies. And his feelings for Camille were
not one sided. There was a growing tenderness, fondness and even love
on Camille's side as well. This was confirmed by Camille, after he
told her how he felt.
She
did not hesitate with her reply: “Robert I am so happy to hear you
say that. I've been wanting to confess something to you.” She
stopped. She looked frightened which in turn frightened Rouan. What
she said next was a total surprise: “I've fallen in love you. I'm
sure this admission of mine is a breach of professional conduct. But
our circumstances are unique. Thanks to you, and Monsieur Frenot,
I've been brought into the center of an important moment in history.
I'm so grateful that I've been given me a chance to be a part of your
life. I've never known a man as tender, intelligent and compassionate
as you. So I'm not ashamed to tell you, I love you.”
Rouan
was moved by her words. He did not expect them. He didn't quite know
what he expected but it was all more than he could have imagined or
hoped for. For his part, he had only wanted her to know how he felt
(and that would have been enough, he would have been willing to leave
it at that). He was so taken aback by Camille's words that he wasn't
sure what to say. Finally, he said, “I'm so lucky. It seems while
the world's luck has changed for the worse, mine has gotten better.
How is it that I've gone from being a disgraced junkie, a man with
blood on his hands, to someone so loved? It seems I must somehow pay
back my good fortune to others who have suffered so much. I must
dedicate this second chance I've been given to help those in need.
And for you Camille, my affection and love is boundless,
unconditional. Our relationship is so precious and so unexpected,
such a lovely surprise.”
“It
is a surprise to me, also. When I would pass by your room while you
slept in the first months that I worked here, I could never have
predicted any of this. But then again, we live an age where nothing
is certain, it so good to know that not all unexpected events are for
the worse. Let us hope that you're awakening is a sign for good
things to come especially for those living in the Q.”
“Yes.
Tousant had a look in his eye when we met. He saw something. I don't
know what exactly. But something, I'm sure of it.”
“He
is such a wonderful man. It is so strange how things have turned
out.”
Rouan,
Camille and the Frenots had a pleasant drive to Geneva. Frenot and
his wife, Catherine, were curious about Rouan's speech. Camille, on
the other hand, knew it by heart. She had heard it many times. He had
read several drafts of it to her. Secondly, while he wrote in
longhand whenever possible, Camille continued to act as his secretary
by typing up all that he wrote and enter it into a computer;
additionally Rouan's hand often grew tired or cramped, and it was
necessary to dictate his notes to her.
Throughout
the trip, the Frenots asked about the speech. Finally, Rouan turned
the tables on them and asked them what they would say. Catherine
spoke first: “I would point out that it is not only the most humane
thing to do. But it is so important for us in the euro zone. It was
not that long ago that Hitler was allowed to build up his war machine
while the rest of Europe slept. A similar situation can occur as the
corporate profiteers’ band together and come up with a plan that
will line their pockets and bring misery to the rest of the world.
Folks in the Q are poor; the greedy men of the Q will want to expand
their markets to wealthier countries outside the Q. Their products
will not be safe, they will not undergo rigorous testing. That would
cut into their profits. Who knows how much in untested goods from the
Q, and it factory farms, already line the shelves of the euro zone?”
“You
must be psychic.” Camille declared. “Robert has written something
almost identical to what you have said.”
They
all laughed.
“What
do you say, Jean-Marc?” Rouan asked.
“As
a lawyer, I would say tribunals should be set up and international
trials should take place, something akin to the Nuremberg trials
after the second world war.”
“Camille
did you send a copy of my speech to them?” Rouan joked. “Of
course, the problems in the Q are not a secret. Capitalism and all
its greed are alive and well in the Q, but sadly the rule of law and
democracy is not. And the underlying problem for the Security Council
and all its members, it seems to me, is one of fear and prejudice, a
fear not just of physical contamination but a psychological one.”
“An
excellent point Robert, let us hope you can help Tousant in his fight
to open up the Q,” Frenot said.
“What
have you heard?” Rouan asked.
“There
are some who want to appoint Zachariah Kimba from the Democratic
Republic of the Congo as permanent Secretary General for a five-year
term. Of course, his views are far more conservative than Tousant's
regarding the Q. The irony, of course, that Kimba was the protégé
of Tousant for many years. Now he is turning his back on his old
teacher when such a great position of power is dangled in front of
him. I spoke to Tousant recently and though he tried to hide his
feelings, he is very hurt. Of course, the argument of members in the
Security Council who support Kimba say that Tousant should step aside
because he is too old. These is why Tousant's supporters only ask
that he be appointed for the reminder of Devereux's term. It does
appear that Tousant is running neck in neck with Kimba. So, your
upcoming talk is very important. “
Tousant
and Zachariah Kimba were the closest of friends until they competed
against each other for the position of Secretary General. Rouan was
told that after the death of Devereux, Kimba came to Tousant and
asked not only for Tousant's support but asked Tousant to nominate
him for Secretary General at the next meeting of the Security
Council. Tousant refused his old friend and protégé. This refusal
caused a rift, a chasm, between the two.
Frenot's
words weighed heavily on Rouan. He knew the importance of convincing
the Security Council to act on behalf of the Q. Every day meant death
and a thousand indignities for those living under the thumb of the
corporate monarchs. Even if the Security Council acted immediately,
it would take years, decades even, of planning, of re-building, of
action. But the situation was far from hopeless. With the technology
available, with physical and human resources available, the Q could
be transformed. Democracy could be restored (possibly even the
American constitution, the Bill of Rights). The dream of a federal
state overseeing those without a voice, who were now without
representation, could become a reality in what was once the United
States. That he could be a part of helping that dream become a
reality, of helping that dream come to fruition, amazed and excited
him.
After
arriving in Geneva, Camille and Rouan checked into the same hotel as
before and requested the same rooms with the lovely view of the lake
and the city. Geneva glittered before them, a brilliant gem, a star
shining brightly for all to see; its glacial waters clean and pure.
It wasn't hard to imagine why those who bathed in the radiance of
such a luminous and enchanting city wouldn't want its luster
tarnished by those suffering in the Q, wouldn't want the purity of
their city contaminated. Why take a chance of bringing poisoned fruit
into this Garden of Eden? It was the question more than any other
that Rouan felt he had to answer.
Since
it would be several days before he was to address the General
Assembly, Rouan thought it would be best to meet with Tousant and
discuss a few things that were on his mind. Tousant readily agreed to
meet Rouan and invited both he and Camille for brunch at his villa.
Camille
and Rouan were taken by taxi to the address given to them (about a
fifteen-minute drive from their hotel). They met Tousant in his
garden in the back of the villa. He was pruning the leaves around a
cluster of white orchids, his stooped figure engrossed in the task
before him.
“You
are just in time.” Tousant handed an orchid to Camille.
Camille
thanked him. Tousant then clipped off another orchid and handed it to
Rouan.
“Thank
you,” Rouan said looking into Tousant's pale blue eyes. Rouan
thought it was like looking into the eyes of a wise and ancient
child.
“You
are most welcome,” Tousant replied. “A gift from an old man, some
think I am too old. It's just an excuse by those who oppose me. But
they are wrong. Because of my advanced age a temporary appointment of
eighteen months would be appropriate. I think eighteen months is
reasonable. I will be acting secretary for the remaining eighteen
months of Devereux's term. That is all. If the Security Council votes
for Kimba, his appointment will be for five years. Any changes in the
Q will be stalled. I'm afraid they've seen through me. They know I
want to use the time to push through a measure to recognize the
colonies in the Q. It is a simple enough measure, but it is a
necessary aid, a steppingstone, in bringing some semblance of
governance to those pushed around by corporate bullies. While there
is a strong faction who supports me, there is an equally strong
faction against me. But I will never be too old to stand on the side
of justice. Justice is one of the eternal verities, eternal truths
and much older than me. Do you know Plato, Monsieur Rouan?”
“Some.
Even though my father was a scientist he enjoyed reading Plato and
told me stories about Socrates when I was just a boy. “
“As
you know, Monsieur Rouan, I am a Buddhist and we believe in the Tao,
the way. Ultimately it is simple to follow the true path by following
no path. One must close one's eyes to see. We recognize the divine in
all things. All life is sacred. Did your father tell you about
Plato's allegory of the cave, Monsieur Rouan?”
“Yes,
the jist of it being we see only the shape and shadows of things, of
a greater reality.” Rouan answered.
“Yes,
we live and breathe amongst shadows, the shadows of a greater
reality. But they are only shadows. We must walk out into the
sunlight of the spirit, the sunlight of truth and love. So, this old
man is not too old for the eternal light of justice and love.”
“All
three great monotheistic faiths believe in one God. Of course, you as
a Buddhist don't identify, don't call that spirit God but rather
simply embrace it rather than to try to limit or define it. My
philosophy is much the same as yours. By whatever name one chooses to
call that one transcendent spirit, that spirit is not divided. The
division can only be found in the hearts of man, in bitterness and
hatred. I've found forgiveness in my heart for whoever was
responsible for the deaths of my ex-wife and mother. I suppose if I
had seen the murder of my mother or Jennifer that would have been
worse. But the killings of Jennifer and my mother was over in a flash
while I slept. The death and overdose of my girlfriend in Paris sent
me into the deepest depression of my life. I had Jean-Marc to help
get me through that. He continues to help me today. I am so grateful
to have such a wonderful friend. I choose not to focus on what I've
lost but what I have. I've been given a second chance. Those living
in the Q also deserve a second chance.”
“Bitterness,
hatred and resentment poisons the soul. I am so happy to see that
those demons have been exorcised from your heart, Monsieur Rouan. I
think you are ready, too, Monsieur Rouan to embrace justice for all
those living in the Q.”
“Of
course, it is right to seek justice for those living in the Q. But
why do the Canadian and Mexican governments have no voice in all
this? Why have they said nothing?” Rouan asked.
“Mexico
has been under Marshall Law for over a decade. The Canadian
government is a skeleton of what it once was. Both governments are
controlled by the monolithic corporations that own and run the
factory farms, manufacturing, and housing. Graft, bribery is a way of
life. Greedy corporations control the Q, not governments. The
Colonists on the other hand believe in justice, in the dignity of the
human person. Their purpose is not to line their own pockets but to
give the people a voice, to bring back justice and fair play. Until
the corporations are reined in by some governmental agency, goods
cannot be safely exported from the Q into the rest of the world. The
quarantine cannot be lifted until a central government that is not
controlled by the corporations regulates the marketplace. Right now,
the corporations serve as the only form of centralized government.
And don't be mistaken. their tentacles run deep into the so-called
free world: in Asia, South America, Africa and the euro zone.”
“So,
you will not propose a lifting of the embargo on the Q right away?”
Rouan asked.
“A
gradual lifting of the embargo will be fine. But as the export of
goods increase, it will be impractical for those outside the Q to
test the food for safety. So, I am proposing, lifting the embargo on
the condition that the colonies be legitimized, strengthened. The
corporations that control the factory farms and manufacturing want
the embargo lifted; they would love to freely sell their goods to the
rest of the world. They just don't want to be under any kind of
government oversight. Secondly, they don't want competition. A free
government would end their strangle hold over those who live in the
Q. In eighteen months, much could be accomplished by a pro-active
Secretary General to aid those in the Q”
“Would
you like to see a copy of the speech I've written?” Rouan asked,
looking up from his wheelchair at Tousant. “Maybe you could make
some suggestions, some changes.”
He
leaned down and touched Rouan's hand. “I trust you will say what is
needed to be said.”
“He
has written a beautiful speech.” Camille said, smiling as she
touched Rouan's other hand.
Rouan
sat between these two gentle souls and all his fears about his speech
vanished. He felt a deep sense of serenity and peace. He would say
what had to be said to the Security Council and hope for a good
outcome, hope that his voice would be heard. There was nothing more
that he could do.
Back
at the hotel, Camille and Rouan had a quiet dinner in Rouan's room.
They had gone out earlier and had been caught in a rain shower.
Camille's hair was still damp, her face glistened. Camille was a
stunning beauty, a beauty that was natural and without pretense. They
both ordered salmon, white rice and vegetables. Afterward they went
out on to the balcony and looked out into the night. Camille bent
down and kissed Rouan on the cheek. “What was that for?” he
asked.
“No
reason, just an impulse.” She ran her hand across his forehand and
hair. “You're such a handsome man.”
“You
think so?”
“I
do.”
They
embraced and kissed, her hands stroking him. He responded physically
to her touch. Later that night when Camille helped Rouan into bed,
after turning off the lights, she undressed and got into bed with
him. The sheets were cool, but her body was warm. Again they kissed
and caressed one another. The balcony door had been left open and
breeze blew in and seemed to lift them high above themselves as if
they were sailing out into a realm they had never known before.
Afterward, they feel asleep, satiated, their bodies bonded together,
their spirits joined, their hearts at peace.
At
breakfast Frenot had good news: Tousant had secured a majority of
votes from the Security Council. China ultimately sided with Tousant
and broke the deadlock. Kimba was out, Tousant was in. Tousant had
always been a popular figure amongst so many on the Security Council.
Only recently had some begun to question him, and only because of his
views regarding the Q. Kimba on the other hand did not have Tousant's
charisma or Tousant's following in both the Security Council and the
General Assembly. Tousant was a beloved figure. So it seems Tousant
would be elected Secretary General. This was a great relief to Rouan.
He would be able to make his speech without the added pressure of
Tousant's election hanging in the balance. It seemed, to Rouan, to be
a magical day. He looked out at the lake glistening before him.
Everything was working out. The lovemaking the night before left both
Camille and Rouan glowing. The world itself seemed to radiate and
glow. Rouan could not be happier.
With
members of the General Assembly in attendance, with the Frenots
smiling on, with Camille beaming with pride, Rouan was introduced by
Tousant: “Here we have before us, an awakened sleeper. A man who
more than just predicted but actually tried to prevent the terrible
bombings that set our world aflame, a prophet, a seer, a time
traveler who has come back to us with a message of hope. For Robert
Rouan it was only a few months ago that United States stood as the
lone superpower in the world. For us, it has been several decades
since its tragic fall. This is the first reason that I have asked
Monsieur Rouan to speak to us. The second reason is that North
Americans cannot speak to us. They are prohibited from traveling
here, of speaking directly to this body. Monsieur Rouan slept in
France while his countryman suffered nuclear attacks and the
unleashing of lethal biological viruses, so fate has brought him here
to give voice to those who have no voice, to speak for many that
hadn't been born when he last saw his beloved country. And he does
love his country, his countryman; he has a daughter living in the Q
even now. I give you Monsieur Robert Rouan.”
There
was applause throughout the hall. Tousant had touched the hearts of
many.
Rouan
wheeled up a ramp and took his place at the center of the stage. He
looked out at his audience and began to speak: “Thank you for your
warm welcome in this wonderful city. A city I have grown fond of, a
city of great beauty and charm. But this city, this body, is
threatened from abroad: from corporate monoliths who will not stop
engorging themselves on human innocence and dignity on the North
American continent. They will feed on fresh blood, on wealthier
countries. They will export their misery beyond the shores of the Q,
if we do not take action now. We do not need to do this by force but
by persuasion, by allowing the highest voices of man to be heard. It
seems in our current world we have grown numb, numbed by the
countless tragedies that have befallen our world. When did this
numbing of the soul begin, with the bomb, Hiroshima, Nagasaki? Truth,
in what time zone, ours or the other guy's? Is fate nothing more than
random chance made meaningful by rationalizations and fantasy where
each of us put ourselves at the center of a poorly lit stage
reenacting the past to fit our own story, our own egos? Well it’s
always easier to take stock of one's neighbor rather than one's self.
But paranoia mixed and shaken up with rationalizations makes for a
highly toxic cloud, and one that hovers above us all. So maybe we
should play it straight for a while without the grease paint and the
curved mirrors, the pointing fingers and the lies—whether those
fingers point to the Q or at ourselves. We are one world. We cannot
divorce ourselves from this interconnectedness. Geographical distance
is not enough. A problem faced in the Q is a problem for us all.
“I
would like to include a couple of the stories from the Q that my
daughter forwarded to me. There were so many that I will be able to
only include these two today. It will be necessary to paraphrase much
of what was communicated to me. I will try to capture the spirit of
what was said since the stories were critical in the formation of my
thinking regarding the Q. Many of the stories are heartbreaking. Some
are inspirational in their own bittersweet way. The first story is
about an orphanage located south of my daughter’s convent on the
border of the Mexican territory. This orphanage housed over four
hundred children of all ages. Some were abandoned by parents who had
no way to feed and care for them. Some had lost their parents to
drugs and disease. In some cases, mothers and fathers had gone north
in search of work at corporate farms that often refused to house the
children of their workers. For whatever reasons, a dozen nuns and one
priest cared for these children. The orphanage was in a converted
hotel with over one hundred rooms. There was a banquet room and
kitchen where meals were prepared and served to the children. The
nuns also taught the children. If the weather permitted classes were
outdoors. The children were taught how to read and write, to add and
subtract, to do long division and some of the advanced students were
even taught Algebra and Calculus. There was a library that contained
over ten thousand books on every subject. Crops were grown.
Livestock, poultry and pigs were raised. Hunting of wild
game—antelope, deer, pheasant and on occasion migratory
geese—provided nourishment for all. Fish were plentiful in several
nearby streams. All things considered, it was not a bad life for the
nuns and the children.
“One
day, some bandits from the Mexican territory arrived in a convoy of
vans, jeeps and buses. Immediately they shot the priest in the head.
They then began rounding up the children. One older nun, Sister Rita,
tried to shield some of the children and fight off the bandits
without a weapon of any kind. Her throat was cut. Several nuns (and
even some of the older girls) were raped. Some were murdered in the
process. Anyone who resisted was killed. The bandits then loaded up
the buses with their human cargo and departed (none of the nuns were
taken only the children). From there the bandits sold the children to
brokers who placed the children in factory farms or pimped out the
prettier girls as prostitutes. There would be no retaliation toward
these bandits since their criminal act was outside the jurisdiction
of the Mexican territory and there was no governmental agency to
bring them to justice.
“The
second story is about a Nebraska farm family, the Goddens. The
Goddens had been farming for several generations. The family coming
to Nebraska in the eighteen-nineties after emigrating from Germany.
After the collapse of the United States, they continued to farm their
land as best they could (they survived several waves of bio-terror
unscathed; and the old county records verifying title to several
thousand acres in their name had been honored). Often, they were
short of fuel and electricity. But with seven children, there was no
shortage of hard workers. Eventually they had solar panels put on the
roof of their farmhouse and barn. They bartered for fuel and farmed
their land producing wheat and corn in abundance. Because the land
was rich, corporate farms sprouted up all around them. Offers were
made for the farm. But currency of any kind was a volatile commodity
in the Q, and the banks were no better, often closing their doors on
a whim, leaving their depositors penniless. No one could depend on
them. Land that produced food was tangible, so the Godden’s took no
interest in the offers. Finally, threats were made. Still the
Godden’s refused the offers. Then one night, the eight-bedroom
farmhouse burned down (with the Godden’s, their seven grown
children, two daughters-in-law, and four grandchildren in it). No one
survived. A corporation took over the farm. No one batted an eye. The
only group strong enough to protest this injustice, to right this
wrong, were the corporations that ran the factory farms in the area,
and it was in their best interest to remain silent and do nothing.
“The
tyrants who rule from end of North America to the other ultimately
jeopardize the security and well-being of us all with their illicit
drugs, weapons of war (both biological and nuclear). We must act and
help stomp out this poison before it wreaks havoc on the members of
the United Nations gathered here which includes members from every
corner of the globe. Thomas Jefferson said, 'resistance to tyranny is
obedience to God.' We must support those in the Q who resist tyranny
and support self-government in the Q. By allowing money and ideas to
flow into the Q, the Colonists can break the hold of these corporate
bullies who regulate the life in the Q but who themselves are not
regulated. Regulations can be put in place to safeguard the goods
coming out the Q. By giving representation in this body to those
living in the Q, they will become bolder, gain confidence. Mega
businesses will not operate shamefully, paying slave wages and
working children long hours and paying them just enough to stave off
starvation. Their practices will be brought out to the light of day;
there will be transparency for all. Laws will be enacted and enforced
for factory workers and factory farms.
In
the past, in the United States, the strategic error was made to seek
justice using weapons of war, to seek justice using force, to engage
in military actions. This was madness. This is something we should
shun. No, we must seek justice by appealing to what is highest in
man, his conscience, his heart, his mind. Capitalism reigns in the Q.
But democracy does not. By establishing a body in the Q, by
legitimatizing the colonies, the people will rise up, and in an act
of will and intellect, will establish regulations and a fair wage for
those who work and live in Q. We need fear not biological and
radioactive contamination (with proper testing), but what we must
fear is the contamination of spirit that would poison our souls. A
poisoned mind and soul is far more dangerous. It was this kind of
poisoning of the soul that led to so many acts of terrorism that have
changed our world. So let us not be poisoned in our souls but be
renewed, and look to our better selves, and seek out fairness and
justice for all. Let us do away with what we call the Q and once
again look to America for nourishment for the world's body and once
again inspiration for our souls from the land that invented jazz,
Rock n' Roll and the cinema.”
Somewhere
during his speech, a silence fell over the hall. There were no
rumblings. It was as if Rouan was delivering a prayer. And he was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After
the triumph of his speech, Rouan, the Frenots, Camille and Tousant
took an evening cruise on Lake Geneva to celebrate his speech and
Tousant's upcoming election as Secretary General. Many members of the
General Assembly (along with their spouses, staffs and friends)
joined in the celebration. It was a lovely night. The lake was
beautiful under a full moon, the water was tranquil and serene. The
mountains stood like gentle giants in the distance on the other side
of the shore. But this picturesque scene was interrupted by a flash
from the muzzle of a revolver, a small caliber handgun. The bullet
struck Tousant in the head. A grimace crossed Tousant's face as he
fell to the ground. Frenot went to the aid of his old friend, who lay
on the deck of the boat dying (a bullet lodged in his brain).
Catherine Frenot looked on in horror. Camille grasped Rouan's hand.
They approached the scene, but their view was soon blocked by the
crowd that surrounded Tousant.
After
the shooting, the gunman dropped the revolver and began mumbling to
himself. This pale, thin man, a boy really, seemed to be out of touch
with what was going on around him. He was quickly taken into custody
by members of the crew. He passed by Rouan and Camille and as he was
being taken away looked directly at Rouan and said, “I have saved
many lives today. I could not permit us to be poisoned. You must
understand.” As he said this, Rouan thought, it seemed to be more
of a question than a statement.
“What
does he mean, Robert? Why?” Camille asked.
“Fear
Camille, he is afraid. He doesn't know what he has done. He is very
ill.” Rouan shook his head and tried to catch a glimpse of Tousant,
hoping that somehow Tousant would survive. But soon it became
apparent that this gentle being, this man of peace and compassion,
had passed from this earth.
“Why
don't they turn the boat around and get some help?” Camille asked.
Just
then a stretcher appeared and Tousant was placed on it. The wound to
Tousant's head was clearly visible. There was no sign of life, his
eyes were closed. A single bullet took his life. A sheet was placed
over the body. The body was then taken into the galley; the onlookers
were pushed aside by members of the crew. Shortly thereafter the Zen
practice of wetting the lips of the deceased was performed by an
assistant of Tousant's.
Catherine
Frenot came toward Rouan and Camille. Camille reached out and
embraced her. Rouan reached up and took her hand. Frenot saw them and
held up his hand acknowledging them; it was red with the blood of
Tousant. Frenot was in shock, his face was without expression, blank,
his eyes were filled with pain and sadness.
“Catherine,”
Rouan said, “Go to Jean-Marc.”
Catherine
Frenot looked over at her husband; she reeled back in horror at his
disposition. “Jean-Marc,” she called to him. Frenot turned toward
her like a lost child and then embraced her; he held on to her and
would not let go.
Rouan
learned that the shooter, Harry Osborne, was British and had suffered
from schizophrenia all his adult life. Tousant and others in the
community compassionately took Osborne under their wing and allowed
him to part of their lives. They helped him find housing and secured
employment for him. Osborne had been close to both Tousant and the
Kimbas.
“How
could this have happened?” Camille asked Rouan.
“I
don't know.” Rouan replied.
Rouan
and Camille approached the Frenots.
“Jean
Marc, is this the act of a madman or something else?” Rouan asked.
“Harry
Osborne was close to Tousant. He's suffered with mental illness. I
just don't understand. Tousant had always been so kind to him.”
“I
saw him staring at Madame Kimba earlier. He seemed quite agitated.”
Rouan said. He thought it was odd that the gunman seemed so familiar
with everyone on board. Earlier in the evening, Rouan had seen him
looking intently at the wife of Zachariah Kimba. But she ignored him.
“Madame
Kimba? He was close with the Kimbas too.” Frenot's voice trailed
off, a thought was surfacing. “Madame Kimba is very ambitious. But
I don't know.”
“Know
what?” Rouan asked.
“She
has been telling everyone in Geneva that if Tousant became Secretary
General, his policies would cause another plague in the free world.
Thousands of people from the Q would spread plague in every country,
in every corner of the free world. She was unrelenting. She would say
anything to see her husband became Secretary General. If she
influenced Osborne in some way, and if she did, it's diabolical. I
should say nothing. I don't want to falsely accuse anyone.” Frenot
stated.
“He's
unbalanced, ill. Surely it's the act of a madman” Camille
interjected.
“My
husband has a point. I know Madame Kimba. Beneath her cool exterior,
she is ruthless.” Catherine Frenot said as she looked over at the
Kimbas on the other side of the boat.
“Let's
be calm and not rush to any judgment. It is too soon to speculate.”
Frenot said as he held up his hands, holding his palms upwards as if
directing everyone to stop what they were saying and to not jump to
any conclusions.
Madame
Kimba was a tall, regal, Scandinavian beauty (some were even heard to
call her a trophy wife; she was at least thirty years younger than
Zachariah Kimba). But others said that she was much more than that;
that she was very ambitious and had worked hard to secure the
position of security general for her husband. Rouan recalled seeing
her right before his speech; she seemed distracted. It was as if she
were waiting for something to happen.
The
boat by then had turned around and made its way back to the dock in
Geneva. Rouan looked across to the other side of the water back
towards where they had come from; a deep wave of sadness gripped his
heart; he felt as if he had left something back across the water,
back before the killing of his friend, Christophe Tousant. Camille
looked over at Rouan and grasped his hand and kissed him tenderly on
the cheek, trying to offer him some consolation in his moment of
sorrow.
“You’re
so good to me.” Rouan said looking up to Camille.
“I
love you very much Robert.” Camille declared.
“You
are so dear. Thank you for making this awful moment a little more
bearable.” Rouan then kissed her on the hand and held it there to
his lips and kissed it a second time.
It
seemed all of Geneva and a majority of the world's leaders turned out
for the memorial service at the United Nations for Christophe Tousant
(though no one from the Q was in attendance since they were
prohibited from travel into the euro zone). There was a private
funeral ceremony at a Zen monastery that Tousant attended. Rouan,
Camille and the Frenots stayed in Geneva so that they might attend.
After the ceremony, the body of Tousant was cremated and the ashes
were scattered over Lake Geneva.
Why
had Tousant been assassinated? Rouan asked himself. There was no
question that it was the act of an imbalanced mind. But was there
something more behind it, a conspiracy? Rouan was not the only one
that had witnessed Osborne gazing at Madame Kimba shortly before he
pulled the trigger that ended Tousant's life. Several members of the
Security Council reported receiving calls from Zachariah Kimba. While
he expressed his horror at the killing of Tousant, his old friend, he
pushed for his election as Secretary General. Many members of the
Security Council considered his calls in bad taste. Whatever support
Kimba once had evaporated. Kimba's support was based solely on his
opposition to Tousant and his proposals regarding the Q. On his own
merits, no one considered Kimba to be a viable candidate. And there
certainly would be no hurry to elect a new Secretary General. With
the death of Tousant, Kimba was out of the running.
Rouan
thought it strange that the Kimbas did not attend the funeral
ceremony at the monastery. They were present at the memorial service
and Rouan noticed that not a word passed between them. Zachariah
Kimba seemed distracted, depressed, inconsolable. Rouan wasn't sure
if this was because he would not be the next Secretary General or if
he was mourning the death of his friend. An answer to this mystery
came as Rouan and Camille were preparing to check out of their hotel
and head back to Paris. Frenot knocked on the door of Rouan's room.
Camille went to the door.
“Who
is it?” Camille asked.
“It's
Jean-Marc.”
Camille
opened the door.
“Is
Robert here? I have some terrible news,” Frenot stated.
“Jean-Marc,
what is it?” Rouan asked as he came around the corner and wheeled
toward the door.
“The
Kimbas were found dead at their apartment this morning by a
housekeeper. I've just heard the news.” Frenot explained.
“Dead,
how?” Rouan asked.
“They're
not sure exactly. But it appears to be a murder-suicide. It looks as
if Madame Kimba was smothered by Zachariah and then he took an
overdose of pills. He left a note. In it he said he could not forgive
himself for allowing his wife to poison Osborn’s mind against
Tousant. She baited Osborne, telling him that if Tousant was elected
Secretary General a plague would occur across the euro zone and rest
of the world. Apparently, she had a lover. She told Kimba that he was
a fool. This sent Kimba off the edge. It was all in the note.”
“I
knew something was wrong when I saw Madame Kimba speaking with Harry
Osborne. It seems once again my instincts were right. Yet there was
nothing I could do to stop another act of madness,” Rouan said.
“None
of us could have predicted this. We all knew how ambitious Madame
Kimba was, but we had no idea how evil she really was,” Frenot said
stoically.
“When
will the world wake from all the madness? Must we accept it?”
Camille asked.
“We
must do our part. We must do what we can, and humbly accept that the
world does not revolve around our good intentions and that even the
best we have to offer can be erased in an instant by an act of
madness. We don't make the rules. Change must come from within each
of us. We must carry Tousant's work forward as best we can. “ Rouan
said.
“I
fear the corporations will take control now,” Frenot whispered.
Rouan
frowned, he had heard the stories, the rumors, of this shadow
government that capitalized on chaos in Europe and some said even in
the Q.
During
the ride back to Paris, Rouan, Camille and the Frenots often sat
silently each pondering the recent tragic turn of events. Other
times, a thought or a question would surface, and everyone would join
in the discussion. Rouan asked one such question, a question that was
on everyone's mind: “What will happen now?”
“There
will be an election for Secretary General; of course, he or she will
be a candidate controlled by the coporations. In the meantime, the
people in the Q will remain trapped, isolated,” Frenot replied.
“Have
you spoken to any members of the Security Council?” Rouan asked.
“Yes,
everyone is in shock. The consensus now is no new changes. You must
understand that many remember the plagues of the past: Great Britain,
Hong Kong, even as far away as the Southern Hemisphere in Australia,
all viruses that began in North America. A decade ago, the quarantine
made sense. But now the fear is irrational. But many do not want to
take the chance.” Frenot sighed and shook his head.
“I've
been thinking about something. Even Camille does not know,” Rouan
said.
“What
is it, Robert?” Camille asked.
“I'm
thinking of going to see my daughter in New Mexico.”
At
first, Camille was shocked. Then the realization hit her: that what
Rouan proposed was inevitable; once he had discovered that his
daughter was alive, and that it was impossible for her to travel and
visit him, that he would have to visit her.
“How
long have you been thinking about this?” Camille asked.
“Since
I first discovered that Terry was alive,” Rouan answered.
“Furthermore, if an old crippled man can survive a visit to the Q,
the publicity would help ease fears of those living in the euro zone,
in the free world.”
“As
you friend, I fear for your safety. But as a father, I understand,”
Frenot said.
“You're
not going without me,” Camille stated firmly.
“Camille,
it is something I must do. I could not ask you to expose yourself to
the dangers.”
“Expose
myself. Robert you are in a wheelchair. You cannot get out of bed on
your own. No, if do go, and that is if, I am going with you,”
Camille was becoming agitated.
“Jean-Marc,
how difficult would it be?” Rouan asked.
“Well
as you know Robert it is impossible to get out of the Q. But it is
possible to go in. Of course, to return to France after a visit into
the Q is very arduous. A six month wait in Miami is necessary. And it
is always possible, that you might not be cleared to enter France, or
to leave the Q if anything suspicious is found in the blood test. For
any reason, that they see fit, you can be refused entry back into the
free world. You could become exiled permanently as could Camille and
I'm afraid if you do travel, you will need her assistance. The
paranoia is so high regarding those who enter the Q. It is a big
risk, a risk that you both must think on long and hard.”
“Exiled,
I'm an American. I've been in exile for decades,” Rouan said.
“You
are a French citizen and the United States no longer exists,”
Frenot replied. “If your daughter wasn't there, I would try to
prevent you from going. But it is a miracle that both you and your
daughter survived, so I won't stand in your way. I will warn you of
the dangers. But I will not stand in your way. I will offer whatever
assistance I can once you are sure that you must go. But as you know,
the Q is a very dangerous place. And I'm sure you will be viewed as a
threat to those who hold power. The speech you gave was followed by
many, especially by those who hold power in the Q.”
“I
could try to keep as low a profile as possible. And actually, I'm
sure those in power in the Q would love to be able to sell their
products in the free world. I don't think it would be in their best
interests to harm me. After all, I have pushed for opening up trade
with the Q. If the big corporations could sell their goods in the
free world, it would make them billions.”
“But
you are also on the side of the Colonists, and the Colonists wish to
ultimately break up the handful of companies that control the Q.”
“I'm
an old man, what threat could I be?”
“I
see your mind is made up, Robert. And what about you, Camille?”
Frenot asked.
“If
Robert is going, I am going.” Camille answered.
While
Rouan would never have asked Camille to join him on such a dangerous
journey, he was happy she agreed to go. Since their relationship had
changed to one of lovers, Rouan knew that it would not be possible
for him to stay at the convalescent care home (they were, after all,
no longer just nurse and patient). Of course, he and Camille could
get an apartment in Paris or even Geneva (and maybe they would, but
later, after they returned from the Q). Then and there, Rouan
realized that they would go, that it was something that had to be
done. He had been given a chance to see his country and his daughter
once again and he would take it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For
several weeks Camille and Rouan prepared for their trip to the Q. A
trip that they both understood and accepted would be for several
years at a minimum. Money was not a problem. Rouan had been receiving
disability checks from the government of France (arranged by Frenot),
those checks having been put in an account on his behalf. Camille had
qualified for a pension after all her years of service as a nurse.
Euro dollars were at a premium in the Q and Frenot would see to it
that funds would be sent to Camille and Rouan whenever needed. The
permits were issued and the ticket for their flight was purchased.
They would be flying from Paris to Havana Cuba (there were no flights
in and out of the Q). Once in Havana, they would take a boat into the
Port of Miami. From there, they would fly from Miami to DFW airport
in Dallas. For security reasons they would take a flight under
assumed names to Albuquerque (fake identity cards were plentiful in
the Q). Folks from the free world were a rarity in the Q and Rouan
would be considered a valuable target for kidnappers with his close
relations with such high-profile figures from the free world and
their ready access to its funds from the euro zone. Rouan's daughter
arranged for transportation from Albuquerque to her convent outside
of Santa Fe. When Rouan first brought up traveling to the Q with
Terry, she had reservations (she feared for his safety). Once it
became clear that Rouan would not change his mind, she confessed her
happiness of seeing her father after so many years. Rouan too
anticipated their reunion with great joy.
Once
again, the white Mercedes van was put into service and transported
Rouan and Camille (along with the Frenots, who wanted to give Rouan
and Camille a proper sendoff). There wasn't a lot of talk on the ride
to the airport. All were anxious. Catherine was particularly nervous,
and she admitted so much. “But after all you have through, why
travel to that lawless land?” she asked.
“It
is the land of my birth and it is a necessary pilgrimage. I must pay
my respects to my fallen countryman,” Rouan stated.
“I
know for the sake of you daughter, you must go. I understand that.
But the restrictions won't last forever. Certainly, she can come and
visit you here.”
“Before
the death of Tousant, we could have expected changes to come sooner
rather than later. But after his death, who knows when the ban on
travel will be lifted. How much longer can I wait? I am no longer a
young man.” Rouan replied.
“But
the danger to both you and Camille, I am so worried,” Catherine
Frenot said. “But I accept that it must be done. It is all very
heroic on your part.”
“Camille
is very brave. She insisted on going and to be frank, it would be
nearly impossible without her. I need her. She is the hero in all of
this. My return to America is long overdue.” Rouan no longer used
the phrase the Q.
“I
think it will be a lesson to the free world, that if Robert can
safely travel there, in his condition, without fear of contagion, he
will set a wonderful example. The world must wake up and see that the
restrictions placed on those living there are ill advised,” Camille
said emphatically.
CDG
airport bustled with activity both inside the Terminals and outside
on the runways. The Frenots waved one last goodbye as Rouan and
Camille made their way to their gate. It was clear to Rouan that they
both were very concerned.
Once
they boarded their flight, Rouan asked Camille: “How do you feel?”
“I'm
tired. I didn't sleep very well.”
“Maybe
you can nap on the flight over.” Rouan suggested.
The
seats in business class were quite roomy and because of Rouan's
condition they shared three seats in all. The seats were a plush pale
blue and quite comfortable. They flew to Havana in a state-of-the-art
Air France jet. The engines after takeoff were almost silent. Rouan
found it unnerving at first but once he realized they weren't going
to fall from the skies, he began to enjoy it. Now and again, they
encountered some turbulence but nothing extraordinary. After a
six-hour flight, they landed in Cuba. Havana was both old and new.
There were towering hi-rises mixed with old world architecture. The
roads were congested with shiny new vehicles of all kinds. Rouan and
Camille would be spending a few days in a hotel and would then be
ferried by boat to the Port of Miami.
Rouan
was amazed at the changes in Havana, it was truly a city transformed.
Rouan had visited it many times in the past, posing as a wealthy
Algerian on holiday while working with Dick Allen. Rouan remembered
that it always had been a beautiful city but now it actually glowed.
The people were friendly and happy. The poverty was gone (as was
Castro). Politically the country operated under a socialist form of
democracy.
There
first night in Havana, Camille and Rouan went out to dinner at a
traditional Cuban Bistro and enjoyed a meal of shredded flank steak
in tomato sauce, black beans, yellow rice, plantains and fried yucca.
That night they made love.
The
ferry ride from Havana to Miami was not crowded with people. Very few
people had an interest in entering the Q. Rouan and Camille's
passports were stamped (anyone who had this stamp on their passport
was subject to testing, at any time, once back in the free world). On
arriving in the port of Miami there were many loaded cargo ships.
This was the primary port where contraband goods were smuggled out of
the Q and into Cuba (from there they could be taken to South America,
Europe, Africa or Asia). Except for Haiti, Cuba was the nearest point
of departure for the free world. After that, Panama was the closest
port for shipping goods to the free world. Panama served a geographic
dividing line between the Q and the free world.
Rouan
was shocked when they arrived in Miami. The cars were old, the poor
lined the streets, the Q was truly was a third world country. To see
a once great American city in such a state broke Rouan's heart. He
had prepared himself for the worst, and believed what he had been
told, but he hadn't seen it with his eyes until now. It left him
terribly sad.
Rouan
had been told that it would be safest to go from the port of Miami
directly to the airport. Rouan and Camille took a taxi (a beat up old
yellow cab with faded lettering and a talkative driver). “I see
that you are coming from the ferry from the free world,” he said.
“I
guess it is obvious,” Rouan said.
“Well
it is my regular route from the ferry to the airport. It one of the
rare places where people come from the free world. I always ask why?
But I hear an American accent. But your friend is French.”
“Yes,
she is French. I was born here. I've been away for a very long time.”
“You
got out before the quarantine?” The driver asked.
“Before
the bombing,” Rouan replied.
“Before
the bombing, oh my God, I was just a boy. But I remember what it was
like. You'll find much has changed. But why return?”
Rouan
did not want to reveal too much to their driver. He did not want
anyone to know their destination. “I had to see my country before I
die.”
“I
wish you both luck. I hope one day they open things up for us.”
“I
do too.” Rouan said. Camille stroked Rouan's hand and smiled.
Rouan's
and Camille's flight from Miami to Dallas was completely different
than one from Paris to Havana. The plane was an old 747, similar to
the ones Rouan had flown in the past. It was noisy and cramped, the
seats were worn and stained in places. The price, however, was right.
Rouan was amazed at what the Euro purchased. A single Euro was worth
over twenty-four Canadian dollars. Rouan regretted that he hadn't
seen much of Miami or the country that he left behind all those years
ago. What he had seen in Miami broke his heart, the poverty was
everywhere. Miami had been such a vibrant, wonderful city. Now the
luster had faded, the cars were old, the streets were in need of
repair and the people looked defeated, lost. Maybe it for the best,
Rouan thought, that he did not see everything at once, that he took
it in gradually.
Several
times during their flight, there was turbulence and Camille would
grasp Rouan's hand. When things would level out and plane took a
smoother course, they both were relieved. Still, Camille held on to
Rouan's hand even after the turbulence subsided. They had an
uneventful landing at DFW airport. Rouan caught his first glimpse of
Texas (after so many years) as they descended. The city glittered
below. Dallas was still there. It gave him hope.
Rouan
and Camille spent the night in a hotel near DFW airport. The next
morning, they took a taxi to Love Field. There had been little new
construction in decades. Rouan saw blocks and blocks of dilapidated
apartments, strip malls and weathered office buildings. Love Field
was bustling with activity. Southwest Airlines had survived but the
planes were old. There was little security at the airport, and no one
seemed to pay attention to the old gentlemen (Rouan) in the
wheelchair and his French companion.
After
a short flight, Rouan and Camille landed in Santa Fe. When they
disembarked from the plane they were greeted by Terry, in her
traditional Franciscan habit. She immediately recognized her father
and ran toward him: “Daddy,” she cried out to him.
Rouan
looked up in shock. The air was taken out of him. “Oh Terry,” he
kissed her, the tears running down their faces. “I thought we would
meet at the convent. Transportation was arranged.”
“We're
the transportation that was arranged. I wanted to surprise you.”
Terry smiled.
Camille
embraced Terry.
A
priest from the convent came forward, “I'm Father Louie, how do you
do?” He shook hands with Rouan and greeted Camille in the French
manner; lips pursed kissing the air on the both sides of her cheeks.
Father
Louie drove the van. It was twilight when they passed through the
city of Albuquerque. The streets were spooky. Trash was everywhere.
Hookers, addicts, the homeless, clustered together. Rouan thought it
was like looking out at the walking dead, their faces were blank,
without hope: Rouan didn't see a single smile amongst them. Rouan was
astonished that he hadn't seen any panhandlers until he realized that
everyone was poor, that there was no one who had anything to spare.
Albuquerque like many cities in the Q did have a police force. But
the police were used only for the most major of offenses, petty
crimes like burglary, assault, and even robbery went unpunished. Few
cities had laws governing prostitution and those that did only
enforced them when it suited them. There were virtually no laws
governing drugs (the FDA no longer existed, the difference between
licit and illicit drugs was negligible). Only the corporate city
states had strong law enforcement and Albuquerque was not one of the
them.
There
wasn't a lot to see once they got out of town, an occasional tattered
and illuminated billboard, but for most part darkness and an unseen
desert, a wasteland. There were hitchhikers, even families with their
thumbs out looking for a ride to who knows where. Rouan wanted to
stop and pick at least some of them up (or at least offer them some
water) but Rouan realized that soon there would no room or water
left. But when Rouan spotted an older woman that looked so weather
beaten and defeated that she about to vanish from the planet if
someone didn't help, he spoke up: “Let's stop and help that poor
women out.”
“You
don't understand. They have nothing. They're desperate. If we stop,
they may try to take our vehicle. It is a common practice to
hitchhike and then rob the good Samaritan who offers his hospitality
and a ride. It has taken a long to for the reunion with your
daughter, we cannot take the chance and spoil your reunion.” Father
Louie explained.
“He's
right Robert,” Camille said.
“Yes,”
Rouan sighed. He put his arm around Terry. She smiled and put her
head on his shoulder.
“I
love you Daddy. You've never heard the story about the evacuation of
Houston after Hurricane Katrina?”
“No
evacuation of Houston, I don't understand?”
“It
was at the time that you were beaten in prison. After Katrina, they
predicted a Hurricane in Galveston. Everyone panicked and headed for
the interstate. Mother and I were trapped in traffic for hours. Then
the phone call came. You had been beaten and weren't expected to
live. Mother didn't want to tell me. But she started to cry. I didn't
know why. I thought it was because of the traffic jam. Finally, she
said that you had been hurt in Paris and were in the hospital. She
hadn't told me you were in jail. Later after we visited you and they
said that you weren't expected to live she told me you had worked for
the CIA and some bad men had hurt you. I thought, my father, James
Bond, so romantic. It was sad when you were in the rest home and we
came to visit. She wanted to cheer me up and say something good about
you and make me proud of you. That is why I told my friend in Dallas
that you knew who killed Kennedy. I told her you were in a coma in
Paris after a mission with the CIA.”
“Terry,
I must be honest, I was in jail because of drugs. I'm no hero. I
fancied myself a spy. But I disgraced myself. Who really knows about
the people I worked with? One day they were drug smugglers, the next
CIA. Spooks, drug smugglers, con men. What's the difference? So many
masks, so many lies and I played with them all. One thing is certain,
the shadow of the cold war descended and left this country in
darkness and I shamed myself and shamed my family,” Rouan said
sadly.
“You
were very sick Daddy. I've prayed for you day and night. And the Lord
heard my prayers. I am so grateful to have such a good God. I am so
grateful to call you my father.” Terry said tenderly, it was clear
that she had accepted the reality of her father's past long ago.
“Do
you know Sister Teresa that your father was one of the first to warn
others of the danger of tactical nuclear weapons and their possible
use as weapons of terror? Your dad is a hero. He is a great patriot.”
Camille spoke passionately on Rouan's behalf.
“You're
sweet Camille. But I fabricated evidence to help secure my release
from prison. And before that, after my disgrace, my fall back into
addiction, I tried to impress my Americans colleagues at the embassy
with the same story. That my fabrications turned out to be prophetic
was just random chance. Contrary to what our friend Monsieur Frenot
says there is no evidence that I discovered anything. Something went
wrong and bombs were released. Something the whole world knew could
eventually happen and did nothing about it. It could have been much
worse.”
“I
was so proud of you when I read about your speech at the United
Nations. I'm so lucky to have such an important man for a father.”
“More
than anything after all the horrors, to find you alive and doing well
means everything to me. And yes I do wish the bombing that killed
your mother and grandmother could have been stopped. Everyone knew of
the threat. Atomic weapons have threatened mankind since the day they
were invented just a few miles from here.”
As
they drove on through the darkness, Rouan thought about the
confession he had made to his daughter. Rouan thought about his
former associates Dick Allen and Pat Adair. In the spy game everyone
knew everyone, but really knew no one. The CIA spooks knew the drug
kingpins, the informants knew the mules that were transporting the
drugs (sometimes they were one and the same; often after they were
apprehended they were sent back to work off their sentences, to pay
their debt for their crime, back in their native countries on the
street where they could bring valuable information to the CIA).
Money, names of contacts, was exchanged freely between those in the
drug trade and those working in intelligence. But no one talked
openly about these relationships. If a smuggler knew of a terrorist
cell and the CIA knew of a pending investigation, information was
exchanged. Everyone wore a mask. No one was exactly who they seemed.
But there was a price for everything. The transaction once made was
never disclosed and was seemingly forgotten. But not really,
information could always be sold again, or stowed away, to the
highest bidder. A code was followed. Agree to a price, pay up, and
then move on. There was no difference between the smugglers and those
in the drug trade and the agents involved in the spy game. They were
all players on the field, ready to exchange information for the right
price.
Rouan
looked into his reflection in the darkened glass of the van, and saw
the lines of age on his face, and realized Dick and Pat were part of
the past, ghosts from another life, shadows from an existence long
gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rouan
and Camille settled into their rooms at the convent. Each room had a
twin bed, a small writing desk and chair, and a window looking out at
the desert and mountains. Camille attended Mass with the nuns daily
and received communion. Sometimes Rouan would attend but did not
receive the Eucharist (he was not catholic, after all). Rouan did
however take part in the prayers and spent long periods of meditation
in the chapel. Because their situation was unique, Rouan and Camille
had their meals with the nuns and became a part of daily life of the
convent. Out of respect for the rules of the convent, Rouan did not
spend any time alone with Camille in either his room or hers. Rouan
did not want to cause a scandal for his daughter or Camille. He came
up with a solution for this problem, but it took several days to
bring it up with Camille. “I've been thinking about something. I
wanted to see what you thought,” Rouan said to Camille as they sat
on the veranda one evening.
“Yes,
what is it Robert?” Camille asked tenderly. She could tell by
Rouan's expression that it was something serious.
“As
you know some time ago our relationship progressed beyond just
friendship.”
“Yes,
I love you Robert.”
“I
love you too. But here we cannot act as lovers for obvious reasons.
Or rather we cannot sleep together.”
“I
am happy with the way things are, Robert.”
“Yes.
But we may go too far and I fear cause a scandal. I do not want to
hurt Terry. I love you very much Camille. I think we should be
married,” Rouan said quietly.
“Marry?
Are you sure?” Camille asked.
“I'm
sure. But what of you?”
Camille's
head rocked back at the thought and then answered, “Yes, I'm sure.
It is the right thing for us to marry.”
Rouan
grasped Camille's hand and smiled. “There's one more thing that I
must do before we marry.”
“What
is that?”
“As
you know my marriage to Terry's mother was destroyed by my addiction.
I must make sure that I am spiritually ready for marriage. I promised
myself when I was in the Santé that when I got out, I would take my
recovery seriously and attend meetings with other addicts.”
“Yes,
that is important. But how? Here in the Q?”
“From
what I understand the Q is full of addicts in need of recovery. It
shouldn't be hard to find a support group in Santa Fe. If I can't
find one, I'll have to start one. Father Louie takes several trips a
week to Santa Fe, I'll talk to him.”
“So,
when do you propose we marry?”
“Well,
I'll have to talk to Father Louie about that. But first I must talk
to Terry.”
“Yes,
that is only right Robert. For myself, I could not be happier.”
Camille kissed Rouan on the forehead.
Rouan
made arrangements to go to Santa Fe with Father Louie. Rouan found
that there were dozens of recovery groups with meetings throughout
the day. He chose an NA meeting that met in the basement of a church
that Father Louie knew well. Father Louie would run his errands and
Rouan and go to the meeting and often would have to time for a coffee
afterward. Rouan heard many horror stories of life and addiction in
the Q. He befriended a man named Hank who, like him, was old and gray
had been a heroin addict before the bombings. Hank had been clean for
decades and helped many addicts as they struggled in their first days
and weeks of recovery. Hank became Rouan's sponsor and encouraged
Rouan to sponsor others. Rouan even began bringing a Native American
handyman, who had a horrible reputation as a drunkard amongst the
nuns, to his meetings in the church basement (no one in Rouan's group
cared what addiction one suffered from, be it alcohol, crack or
heroin, all were welcome).
“We
don't care about your past.” Hank declared.
“We've
all been through so much.” Rouan added. “I think each one of us
has to strive for peace within. Let us remember that all wars begin
in the darkness of the human heart. All of us have to be exorcised
from that darkness, to let it go, to be free of that burden. Hatred,
retaliation, fear, paranoia, most of the reasons for war are absurd.
We all have to grow up and let go of our petty differences. All of us
here have witnessed so many hardships. We came close to seeing the
end of the world. I saw the end of my world and awoke in a new world.
A world almost destroyed by weapons of war; my country gone. But all
of you were here. So you know better than I about the suffering here.
I was lucky, I slept through it all.”
“Some
of us were sleeping but we woke up,” someone shouted from the back
of the room.
Some
in the group smiled. Everyone knew his story. That he had been in a
coma in France and had only recently returned to America.
“We're
glad you're here,” Hank said.
“It's
been a pleasure working with Robert,” Hank said. “Well I see it
is time to close.” With that, Hank and everyone stood and said the
Serenity Prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I
cannot change, the courage to change the thing I can and the wisdom
to know the difference.”
Once
Rouan felt secure in his recovery, he went to his daughter, Terry,
and told her of his plans to marry Camille. Never had Rouan seen such
a radiant look on Terry's face as she spoke, “Daddy that is what
I've been praying for. I felt from the beginning the Lord brought
Camille to you. She loves you so much. Have you talked to Father
Louie?”
“Not
yet. I wanted to talk to you first.” Rouan replied.
“It
will be a beautiful wedding. We must have it here in the chapel,”
Terry said enthusiastically.
“So
we will. I will talk to Father Louie and Camille and we will set a
date.”
“There
is something else I want to talk to you about Terry.” Rouan's face
darkened, the joy from a few moments before vanished. This frightened
Terry.
“What
is it?”
“Oh,
I did not mean to frighten you. I would never want to hurt you. But I
have hurt you. Because of addiction, you did not have both parents.
It was my fault that your mother and I divorced.”
Terry
let out a sigh of relief when she realized why her father had grown
so serious. “Daddy, you were sick. You could not help yourself. I
prayed for you every day when I was girl. I became so good at it,
that I became a nun,” she laughed.
Rouan
realized at that moment that his disease had taught his daughter
something that he could never teach her: unconditional love. She
prayed not for selfish wishes (as he had in his own way) but for
someone else, someone she loved dearly.
“That
is wonderful. But I'm not off the hook. Not only was I not there for
you. I caused you to suffer so greatly. Monsieur Frenot told me that
you and your mother came to visit me. I can't imagine how you must
have felt when they told you that I was about to die,” Rouan said.
“There
you see Daddy, you didn't die. I was praying again for you, for a
miracle. I asked the Saints to intercede for you. I prayed that my
Daddy would live, and here you are. Don't you see, if you had been
back in Houston with mother, you would have been killed. Then I would
have lost both my parents.”
“You
make things so easy for me, honey. But I had to come back here to
tell you these things. It will take the rest of my life to pay back
what I took from you. I love you so much. I am so sorry. And I want
to thank you for your prayers. For this miracle I've been given.”
Both Rouan and Terry had tears in their eyes.
The
date for Camille and Rouan's wedding was set for Pentecost. Terry
helped Camille pick out a wedding gown. Camille looked radiant. Rouan
wished he could stand and take his vows, but his legs would not hold
him, even so he felt as if he was floating on air.
When
Camille threw the bouquet (which was caught by a young girl, a novice
who had not yet taken her vows), Rouan vaguely remembered seeing a
bridal bouquet somewhere before but couldn't remember when. Later
when he and Camille honeymooned in their new home (a gate house at a
ranch a few miles from the convent), he went outside for some air. He
wheeled down a wooden ramp (that had been put in place for him) and
wheeled up a path to a barbed wire fence. Everything seemed unreal.
The sky was blanketed with stars. Rouan contemplated the
constellations, the Milky Way, the Big Dipper. And just as things
couldn't have become stranger, out of the darkness, a white horse
appeared like an apparition on the other side of the fence. The horse
approached Rouan. It was then that he remembered where he had seen
the tossing of a bridal bouquet. It was in the dream with the white
horse. He remembered the bride had been Terry. He remembered his
embarrassment when he caught the bridal bouquet. He remembered the
promise that he too someday would be married; and now all of that had
come to pass. Rouan reached out across the fence and the horse bowed
its head low and Rouan was able to reach up and pet its soft white
mane. The horse's eyes looked knowingly into Rouan's. Was all this
real? Rouan wondered. It was like a fairy tale: the wedding, the
bouquet, the white horse, the remembrance of the dream. After all the
horrors that had befallen, after all of that: suddenly this
apparition of a white horse before him. Illusion, reality, what did
it all matter? Yes, he thought, he was blessed with new eyes. It was
real enough for him. He had woken up from the nightmare of the past.
Was it all a dream, his awakening? Rouan was certain of one thing.
The past could not be changed but the future could. One could learn
from the past. The past was a great teacher, if one were willing to
listen to what it said. One could take the right path whenever one
chose. Once a stone fell into a pool, it stayed on the bottom. But a
human being unlike a stone could surface after such a fall. The past
was gone, its effect could be felt, but the course of one’s life
could be changed. Rouan considered the existence of God. It seemed to
him that God was both everywhere and nowhere. Rouan thought about
what his father used to say about infinity and nothingness being two
sides to the same coin. Just as that thought passed through his mind,
a shooting star burst across the sky. Rouan was transported, elevated
momentarily into that sky, into those heavens.
He
then thought about the future. He worried about France and the United
Nations. Frenot was right the Illuminati had taken control of the
United Nations. Rouan wondered if his vision (of the restoration of
the United States, of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, of its
democratic freedoms) was a kind of prophecy, or just the product of
wishful thinking. Was all that he had experienced since his awakening
a fantasy, a manifestation of a sleeping brain, remnants of a former
reality? Had he, in fact, died back in prison in Paris? Was this the
afterlife? How was it that he come back justified in his paranoia, a
man who had tried to foil a plot to destabilize and ultimately
destroy the United States? A man who addressed the United Nations on
the behalf of his fallen country. Was it all a product of his
unconscious mind, a kind of wish fulfillment? Once again, he faced
the same question: what was real and what was imagined? No, it was
much more than a dream (and since his awakening it was as if he
existed in a kind of heightened reality). Not even he could come up
with such a powerful dream. It was more than a hallucination, a
fantasy. It was much more powerful. Some divine force was at work.
Was this some form of Purgatory? he asked himself. Maybe he needed to
work out the imperfections in his personality, the defects that held
him back. Then, he thought, he could move on to a higher realm. But
he didn't want a higher realm. This world was good enough for him. He
was happy for the first time in his life.
Even
the bipolar condition that had marked his previous life was gone. Not
vanished entirely but somehow transformed, leveled off; it became
manageable without medication of any kind. Yes, he was depressed at
times. But who wouldn't be after discovering all the horrors that he
had woken up to? And who wouldn't been elated by the high points of
his new life? Now, it seemed to him, his joys and sorrows followed
some kind of order, made sense, and were not simply by the product of
some random mood beyond his control. Even if everything was an
illusion, a product of his imagination (which he now doubted), he
would act as if it was real, and do what he could to make his world,
his reality, a better place. And he was not alone in all of this. He
shared his world with others. And if it was a dream, it was a
beautifully made one. He could feel it with all his senses; he could
breathe in the fresh air. It was invigorating. No, he was not the
dreamer. The world that surrounded him was not just one of shadows,
full of missing parts, loose ends. That is what his dreams were like.
That is what his nightmares were like. It seemed some transcendent
being was the dreamer and this divine and all powerful being forgot
nothing down to the finest detail. Some power had guided him and
blessed him and brought to this place, this moment. I will believe in
it all, he declared to himself. Why not? In particular he believed in
the prayers and love of his daughter, Terry; and in the love of his
wife, Camille. Their love had somehow plucked him from his misery and
had lifted him high above all his pain, lifted him out of his own
private hell, and gave him eyes to see. He believed in love. He was
so grateful. Rouan realized at that moment that he had been given the
ultimate second chance, and what up till now had remained only a
vague and unknown promise, like an unknown country, was now fulfilled
in the strange and magical land that stretched out before him under a
starry sky. He had all of eternity to take it in, to contemplate its
wonders. Yes, it was all too real.
“Heaven
is real,” he whispered to the horse that stood beside him as he
stroked its white mane. “Heaven is real,” he said again. He would
never have guessed that even in his wildest dreams. He had found
Heaven in every moment of his existence. He was so grateful to the
force that had guided him, that had offered him this gift of
enlightenment. He had looked for answers all of his life and all
along everything that he needed was so close that he could not see
what hovered all around him. He was happy. He was content. He was
ecstatic. But this time he was not flying on false wings. His wings
were real and strong and flexible. He wasn't simply being carried
away by a fleeting mood, a symptom of a mental disorder. His flight
was the result of an inner transformation, his unfolding soul
transfigured and guided by a divine light that lifted him beyond the
stars, beyond the limitations of time and space. It was the
fulfillment of a promise that he had only guessed at, but now fully
knew and embraced.
Camille
stood in the doorway and called out to him, “Robert, who are you
talking to?”
“To
the horse,” Rouan replied.
“What
horse?”
The
horse had spooked and had quietly merged back into the shadows.
“He's
gone, dear.” Rouan looked up at Camille.
She
seemed like an apparition standing in the doorway in her night gown,
the kitchen light catching the curves of her figure, the curves of
her hips and breasts. She was smiling so peacefully. She was
luminous, radiant, like a goddess or a saint, but not one who
occupied some distant cloud, she was near, he could reach out and
touch her.
“Well
come back inside and warm up our bed, it's cold out here. And it's
cold in bed without you, my love.” she said
“I
can do that,” Rouan replied. He wheeled up the ramp toward her. She
opened her arms wide and embraced him so tenderly. He looked up into
her eyes and thought he was back looking at the stars, the heavens.
“Heaven is real” he repeated for a third time.
“Yes,
Robert. Heaven is real.”
One
spring night as Camille and Rouan sat on the porch of their cottage,
Rouan reflected on all the things that had come to pass: the
restoration within himself. He had found peace and moved from
darkness and despair into the light. The twilight sun's pink and red
streaks had been replaced with a deep blue and a violet afterglow.
Rouan glanced over at Camille and thought that she was more beautiful
than ever. When out in the sun, working in the garden, walking around
the ranch, or even running errands in town, she always wore a hat to
shield her pale complexion from the sun. Her face seemed to him to be
ageless. She was obviously older than when they first met but to
Rouan she appeared to be like a ripened fruit that had matured
perfectly and only now was ready to be picked. Camille's breathtaking
beauty hadn't diminished at all. To the contrary, her beauty had
blossomed in the years he had known her. Her eyes were still a lovely
green. When Rouan looked into them, they filled him with such hope.
He could see the future when looking into them (even more so now that
he had reached such an advanced age; he thought he could see into
eternity looking into those eyes). She had the figure of a girl her
in twenties; she practiced yoga and even convinced Rouan to try it.
The breathing exercises and the stretching was an excellent tonic for
someone in his condition and at his advanced age.
“What
are you thinking about dear?” Camille asked.
“All
the changes that we have seen and even after all these years, how
beautiful you are. You are more beautiful today than the day I met
you.”
“You
have kept me young. Our love has kept me young. When I look at you, I
feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.”
“And
I feel like a schoolboy that cannot believe his good fortune at
capturing the heart of the prettiest girl in the class.”
“Who
could have predicted all this?”
“With
all the horrors, life can be so beautiful. We are so lucky. That I've
lasted this long is such a
miracle.
I am so blessed.”
“We
are both blessed. I am so blessed to have you in my life Robert.”
“I
don't know what I would have done without you.”
“I
think you would have done fine.”
“I'm
not sure of that at all. What is that you have in your hand?” Rouan
asked after seeing Camille pick up a book on the table beside her.
“A
novel I've been reading.”
Rouan
took a deep breath and then let it out. He had no need for fiction,
none at all. Even after all its disappointments and horrors, madness
and pain, this life was enough for him. He could imagine no other. He
could imagine nothing better. The door of Heaven had opened, and he'd
crossed its threshold without the sound of trumpets, fanfare or
blowing horns of any kind; there was just the fragrance of something
in the wind, something in the air, something in his soul.
OCEANIA
Best friends, Parker Jane and Star adored each other.
Star had long strawberry blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Parker Jane
had short dark hair and dark eyes. Star was a dreamer; Parker Jane, a
realist. Never jealous of the other, they celebrated their
differences. Where one was weak, the other was strong. They were
closer than twins and would often read to each other from their
diaries, sharing their most intimate thoughts and secrets, as only
twelve-year-old girls can.
Star looked up at the sky and pointed, “Do you see
those dark clouds?”
“So what?” Parker Jane looked up and shrugged.
“Do you think it is going to rain?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“I don’t want it to rain.”
“Not rain. We need rain. We need water, Star.
Without water we would die.”
“When it rains people get sick.”
“Everyone gets sick sometimes.”
“But it is happening more and more. Reverend
Flowers said Eurasia is seeding the clouds with poison.”
“That’s a myth, Star.”
“Reverend Flowers said Eurasia is the enemy and
they want to kill us.”
“Kill us. Eurasia doesn’t care about us.”
“Reverend Flowers said they don’t believe in God.
They want to take our freedom away.”
“Reverend Flowers is a big bag of wind.”
“Reverend Flowers is the head of this compound. He
is our leader. He shows us the ways of God.”
“God,” Parker Jane laughed. “What God?”
“Please Parker don’t say that. You must believe
in God.”
“Star, don’t be silly.”
“See, it's starting to rain.” Star held her hands
out as she caught droplets of rain in her palms. “Let’s get
inside. God may not protect you from lightning, the way you have been
talking Parker Jane.”
“I’m not afraid,” Parker Jane said defiantly.
“Because you know deep down God loves you. God
loves us all.”
“Even atheists?”
“Yes, even atheists. God loves sinners most of
all.”
“Oh, I’m a sinner because I don’t believe in
fairy tales, is that how it is?”
“No, we are all sinners, Parker Jane.”
“Star, sometimes you drive me crazy, but I still
love you.”
“I love you, too. Hurry let’s get inside. I don’t
want either of us to get sick.”
Star was right about one thing. After it rained,
people would often get sick, and it was happening more and more
often. It had been three hundred years since the first atomic bomb
had been dropped on Hiroshima. After that, the world suffered wars
and man-made plagues. As the art of warfare advanced, death ruled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Parker Jane and Star idolized Princess Larissa. She
was so beautiful. She was so much better than any actress or
storybook character. She really was a princess. She was the only
child of King Harold. She lived in a grand palace, an estate,
overlooking the ocean. She wore beautiful gowns. Since Parker Jane
and Star were orphans (their parents died in wars overseas), Princess
Larissa was both an imaginary big sister and fairy godmother.
At nineteen, Princess Larissa seemingly had it
all—glamour, fame, charm. But she harbored a secret. A secret, no
one but her father knew. No one guessed. She felt there was no one
she could tell. She spent hours alone, talking to herself, wandering,
thinking, and worrying about the future, worrying about what would
become of her if her secret got out. She would often look up into the
sky and search for an answer but heard nothing. She was alone. It
seemed so unfair. She wished she could be lifted up into the clouds
and drift away to another land far from her own country, far from her
shame. She was a prisoner caged in a palace. Often, she could roam
the grounds of the estate but she was seldom seen in public
(occasionally she would visit a local hospital, this gave her great
joy and she always introduced herself simply as Larissa without
fanfare and with her security detail out of sight).
After the death of her mother, the horrible thing
began. Her father heartbroken and drunk stayed in bed for days. She
tried to comfort him, she loved him so. One night he awakened her as
he slipped into her bed in the dark. He was crying and babbling
incoherently. At first, she patted him on the shoulder and kissed him
on the cheek to calm him. She stopped suddenly. She could feel his
erection pressed against her. Then it happened, he entered her. She
was a virgin. It was a strange sensation. She cried out but he
continued. “Please stop,” she begged him and still he continued.
Finally, he collapsed while still inside her. She pushed him away. He
slept. She got up and went to the bathroom; the bathroom light was
cold and clinical. She was in shock, she moved around as if in a
trance. There was blood between her legs. She showered. She sat in
the bathroom on the cold floor all night and cried.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In his Chapel Hall office, Prime Minister Westerbrook
sat on a red velvet sofa. Gray and handsome, he sipped on a cup of
coffee. Seated on a chair across from him sat a portly, balding
man: Chief of Staff Cyril Blakely.
“What about this virus? Where does it come from?
Why now? Why are there so many new cases?” Prime Minister
Westerbrook asked.
“Yes, it is true, many have fallen sick. The death
toll is rising. But we have suffered with so many of these viruses.
We do not even know if the sick are all suffering from the same
disease. We’re not sure about any of this,” Chief of Staff
Blakely answered back.
“Is there any truth to the rumors that Eurasia is
behind this?”
Eurasia was the most powerful country in the world.
Their leader, Premier Tsong, ruled ruthlessly backed by the Council
of the Illuminati. Many people lived in forced labor camps. Travel
was prohibited there. It had suffered through civil wars for a
generation and had been under martial law for just as long. The Pope
was under house arrest for speaking out against the regime.
“No.” Blakely replied with certainty.
“You seem sure of yourself. How can that be?”
Blakely knew something. Prime Minister Westerbrook
could read his old friend easily.
“I only mean to say that there is no evidence that
Eurasia has anything to do with it. That rumor is something that
Reverend Flowers fabricated to stir up the fanatics on the right. His
claims are bogus. He is still upset over all the cutbacks to the
military.”
Prime Minister Westerbrook had decommissioned the
armed forces and scrapped their machines of war. The people were sick
of war. He had been voted into office on that promise (with Chief of
Staff Blakely as his campaign manager). Prime Minister Westerbrook
kept his promise. There would be no more fighting overseas. The
defense system that protected the borders from invaders remained
intact; it was formidable and state of the art. But no retaliatory
force was left to engage in wars on the other side of the world.
“Still you are not telling me something. Tell me.”
Blakely flushed; his ears turned red. “There is one
thing. Not substantiated. It is possible Zion Industries is
involved.”
“Zion Industries, Zion Industries,” Prime
Minister Westerbrook repeated. Zion Industries funded
Westerbrook’s campaign and developed many wonder drugs. They were
one of the most respected companies in the land. But after the
military was decommissioned, they worked on a secret project
developing viruses and vaccines. This worried Westerbrook. His face
turned ashen. “I want to know everything.”
“Yes.”
“And if it is their bug, do they have a vaccine?”
“Part of the protocol would call for the vaccine to
be developed along with the virus. But with this, from what I can
gather, there is some confusion.”
“Find out,” Prime Minister Westerbrook was
livid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Princess Larissa could not sit still. She decided to
go for a walk. She had to move, and in moving somehow (as if by
magic) leave the past behind. Maybe something would change; anything
that would relieve her of her suffering. She thought the beach would
be the best place to walk. She took a deep breath and descended a
steep and long set of wooden stairs to the water. The wind blew hard
and cold. She shivered. She wore only a thin, blue jacket. The
sunlight brought out the highlights in her hair. It shimmered. She
had the face, walk and frail figure of a fashion model. Looking at
her, no one would guess that her spirit had been ravaged, that her
sanity had been shattered.
What was to be done? She asked herself. In the
beginning she could not bring herself to say anything to her father.
But when it happened again (and only later when he was sober), she
said something to him. He pretended not to understand, that he had no
memory of the event. But she spotted the darkness, the guilt that
weighed him down. She told him he must never come into her bed again.
Ever. Finally, he muttered something about how drunk he was and that
he did not think too much could have happened.
“It happened,” she insisted “and it must never
happen again.”
“Okay,” he agreed. But it did happen again and
again.
Princess Larissa continued her walk along the beach.
She was a young, beautiful woman but had no boyfriend or lovers (her
shame of what her father had done was too great). She watched as the
waves crashed against the sand. What could she do? Who could
she tell? Who would believer her? Her father was king. He was above
the law. In her mind she turned the problem over and over like the
waves tumbling on the shore. She could not push the problem away; she
could not command the tide to recede.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Did you hear?” Star was out breath and flushed
as she grabbed and clutched Parker Jane by the arm.
“Hear what?” Parker Jane asked back, shaking her
head.
“It is the greatest news,” Star exclaimed.
“Tell me,” Parker Jane smiled.
“Princess Larissa will be on TV, an exclusive
interview. She will actually talk, answer questions.”
“When?”
“Friday night.”
Parker Jane and Star then made plans to watch
Princess Larissa in the community center (where holographic images
were projected on to a big stage that transformed normal size humans
into thirty foot giants). Parker Jane and Star even skipped
dinner. All over the country folks awaited the arrival of Princess
Larissa in their homes on TV.
That Friday night, the community center was packed.
Even so, Parker and Star found seats upfront. They were wide eyed and
never happier. Princess Larissa very rarely spoke publicly and never
sat for such a lengthy interview. The interview was conducted by
Chaisley Citrone, a veteran reporter and war correspondent. Before
Parker Jane and Star could catch their breath, Princess Larissa
appeared before them. She seemed to look right into their souls.
Chaisley Citrone, a small pretty woman in her
mid-thirties, walked beside Princess Larissa on the grounds of the
king’s estate.
“Let us start with something sad, the death of your
mother, our queen, just a year ago.”
“Yes, her death was so hard, so unexpected,
such a shock,” Princess Larissa remained composed but weary,
mournful.
“I am sure you think of her often here on the
estate.”
“Yes, of course I do. Just over there is her
beloved garden; depending on the season, it would be filled with
roses, orchids and lilies. She so loved to sit next to the pond in
spring and watch the world turn green.”
“Your father, the king, took the death of his queen
hard. We all remember the speech he gave at her funeral.”
Princess Larissa froze and did not reply.
“It is still difficult for you to talk about it,
isn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s right,” Princess Larissa spoke in
a monotone devoid of emotion.
Chaisley Citrone did not expect such a response. It
was as if the mention of her father had taken her breath away.
“Let’s move on. Larissa, I can call you that I
trust?”
“You may. That is my name,” she smiled. Her mood
changed.
“What are your plans for the future?”
“I will be attending nursing school.”
“Nursing school, is that right?”
“Yes, I feel I have a call to work with the sick.”
“Still, it is a surprising choice.”
“Possibly. But I have done some volunteer work at
hospitals. I spent hours with many of the sick, some who died while I
was in the room. When I see the elderly who cannot help themselves,
or any of the sick, I want to help. But what I can do is limited
since I have no training. I want to do so much more. Our hospitals
are filling up. What hurts me the most is seeing the children. They
are so innocent. When they die, it breaks my heart. There are so many
sick now. We all must do something, whatever we can.”
“This new virus is taking hold all over the
country.”
“Yes, it is terrible. You should know, the sick are
not contagious. We cannot catch the disease from them.”
“How does one become infected?”
“That is a mystery. That we do not know.”
“What is usually the best treatment?”
“There is no treatment. There is no cure.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reverend Flowers announced to the press that he would
be making an important speech from the pulpit of his church to be
broadcast nationwide on the following Sunday. His sermons were often
broadcast on Sunday mornings, but this was different. This would be
no ordinary sermon; he declared it vital to all. Parker Jane and Star
would be singing in the children’s choir, before the speech. When
they heard the news, they were ecstatic (Parker Jane and Star were
wonderful singers). Later they would watch themselves (in a replay of
the event) on the big stage in the community center.
There were several rehearsals which Reverend Flowers
attended. But he omitted his speech (that was kept secret). The press
engaged in a guessing game, but all of their guesses were wrong.
Strangely, Reverend Flowers did notice Star during one of the
rehearsals and complemented her on her voice (after she sang a solo,
or rather a short refrain). “One of the angels” he was heard to
say. Star had never been given praise from such an important figure.
Parker Jane discretely rolled her eyes. But when she saw the look the
pride on Star’s face, she kept her sarcasm to herself.
Parker Jane and Star arrived early at the church
(already wearing their chiffon gowns). Then they waited. Parker Jane
could see that Star was nervous. She gently patted Star on the
shoulder and smiled. Star caught her breath and smiled back. As
Reverend Flowers entered the church, the choir began. Star seemed to
be floating, in another world, her eyes glittering, as she sang.
Soon everyone was seated, and Reverend Flowers made
his way to the pulpit. His hair was gray, his shiny well-scrubbed
face and jowls were smooth shaven; he was a big man (one could even
say fat). Even so, he was a man of distinction, power and authority
as he stood above the congregation; his voice boomed out for all to
hear.
“Today, I will not speak of the ways of God, the
angels and heaven. Today I will speak of evil, of Satan, and of the
sickness unto death that plagues and haunts this land. Over the past
months, I have accused Eurasia and its evil empire of poisoning our
land with a terrible virus. I have stated how foolish Prime Minister
Westerbrook has been in dismantling our army and leaving us
vulnerable to the vultures that would pick this country apart. But I
have been wrong about one thing and one thing only. Eurasia did not
create the virus that poisons our country. This poison was created in
the laboratories of Zion Industries, the same company that funded the
campaign of Paul Westerbrook. Zion Industries, following orders from
the Prime Minister, began secretly making this deadly virus. This
particular virus needs certain atmospheric conditions to incubate and
metamorphosize in the clouds. After this transformation it is
dispersed by rainwater. Once this contaminated rain comes in contact
with the earth, toxins enter into its human hosts undetected. It then
lies dormant for a time, days, weeks, sometimes months. Later it
sickens its victims and ultimately kills them. How this weapon of
war, created by Zion Industries, made its way into the atmosphere
above us, is uncertain. It may have been an accident committed during
some sort of testing phase. There is some evidence of this. But who
authorized these secret tests against the will of the people? Prime
Minister Westerbrook. We must call on Zion Industries to
release all records and to aid this country in a search for a
vaccine. Everyone must then be inoculated. Before this, Prime
Minister Westerbrook must resign. If not, he must be forcibly removed
from office. That our greatest threat comes not from Eurasia but by
Prime Minister Westerbrook in cahoots with Zion Industries is
baffling. They worked in tandem, in secret, in the darkness, like the
devil himself, shame on them. Again, I say, Prime Minster Paul
Westerbrook must resign. He is worse than a fiend.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker,” the voice of Myles
Kendrick boomed out in the House of Commons as cheers, applause and
cries echoed throughout the chamber.
“Order, order, the opposition leader has the
floor,” the speaker of the House said in reply.
“Mr. Speaker, we ask for all records of Zion
Industries to be made available to a bi-partisan committee, made up
of members of both the Conservative and Democratic Party. We cannot
expect the government, the Ministers of Defense and Justice, to
investigate this matter.”
Prime Minister Westerbrook stood up. “I have
already put together a team to look into this matter discretely and
to discover all facts no matter who will be hurt. We want the truth.
We want a solution. This is all we care about. The country comes
first.”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Myles Kendrick shot back as
he stood. “Reverend Flowers has done this country a great service
in making this scandal known to the public. Your offices, Mr. Prime
Minister and your ministers, were involved. They cannot investigate
themselves.”
Cries were heard throughout the chamber once more.
“Order, order,” the speaker called out.
“Honorable leader of the opposition, it should be
noted that is a highly delicate matter coming under the official
secrets act (for the good of all). From what I know, Reverend Flowers
does not have access to top secret documents and has not signed the
official secret act. This country will not be run by rumor and
innuendo,” the Prime Minister declared.
“No, Prime Minister it will not. Nor will it be run
by private organizations such as Zion Industries. It should be noted
that they are great friends and contributors to you and your party.
That a secret contract was given to those responsible for your
election is repugnant. It begs the questions, are you and your party
bought and paid for by Zion Industries?”
Shouts (a kind of thunder) shook the House. Prime
Minister Westerbrook stood, “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker,” he called
out. But he wasn’t heard. Others stood and cried out.
“Order, order,” the speaker pleaded.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Prime Minister sat alone in his darkened office.
He hadn’t slept (except for the occasional nap) in over a week.
This only added to his paranoia. But he wasn’t suffering from
delusions; everywhere he turned he the saw the eyes of a monster,
luminous in the dark, looking back at him, studying him, preparing to
pounce. On his desk, were top secret documents. One contained the
formula for a virus. This formula was unique. Westerbrook was
astonished at how accurate Reverend Flowers description had been. In
order to be activated it needed a unique chain of events to occur. A
certain altitude along with a precise barometric environment was
necessary in its first phase of development. It would then be
vaporized and fall back to earth when it rained parts of its chemical
structure deeply embedded within its DNA. Once it entered its human
host, it would be fatal. The second insurmountable problem was that
Zion Industries was not cooperating in any kind of investigation.
After Reverend Flowers’ speech, finger pointing was followed by
silence, a total blackout (the only visible activity taken was by
public relations consultants, spin doctors and lawyers in tower
suites illuminated throughout the night across the capital as they
worked to protect the coffers of their clients).
All the Prime Minister Westerbrook wanted was peace.
Like his fellow countryman, he was sick of war, sick of the waste of
human life, sick of the sorrow. The purpose of the secret project
with Zion Industries was not so much as to create new viruses, new
weapons of war, but to study how these viruses functioned and how to
defend against them. The research was about cures and vaccines not
about more killing and more death. Westerbrook sighed. How did it
come to this? What would he do? He could resign. But how would that
help in eradicating the disease that plagued the land? Would that
only delay the search for a cure? Very few knew (except those
at Zion Industries) the one terrible secret that haunted Prime
Minister Westerbrook most of all. It was so terrible that Prime
Minister Westerbrook prayed it wasn’t true—once released the
virus was programmed to replicate itself over and over again. Its
designers must have initially assumed its power at regeneration would
dissipate. They were wrong, according to the study that sat before
him on his desk, the virus was replicating itself at a faster pace as
the days and months went by; it was growing stronger and infiltrating
the clouds from coast to coast. Ultimately it would cover the entire
planet. Seemingly, it could not be stopped. The only solution:
find a vaccine. But without the help of Zion Industries, that would
be impossible. No, Prime Minister Westerbrook thought, he must stay
in office and convince Zion Industries to work with government
scientists in finding a cure. It seemed the clouds themselves would
have to be inoculated, if there was to be any hope for anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As she crossed the outer chamber of the palace
office, Princess Larissa trembled. Upon entering the inner chamber
door, the king, her father, looked up from his chair.
“Larissa, I very seldom see you at this time of
day,” the king observed.
“No, you do not,” the princess replied, her voice
seemed stern, aloof.
“There must be a reason for your midday visit”
“There is.”
The princess stood in the middle of the room and
looked away.
“Come closer,” said the king.
The princess put her hands out but did not move.
“Father, I have something to say. I have contacted the Greenville
nursing school and have been accepted.”
“I see. As you know, I have no objection to you
going to nursing school. I think it would be fine, but Greenville is
hours away from here.”
“Yes, that is true,” the princess agreed.
“Travel to and fro would be far too time consuming.
Perhaps another school here in the capital would be more suitable.”
“Greenville is the best nursing school in the
country, and I could stay with the Sisters of Mercy. They run a
dormitory for female nursing students.”
“Out of the question, you are a princess. You are
not a nun.”
“It is not a convent. It is a dormitory for nursing
students.”
“And what of your security detail, where would they
stay?”
“It is safe. Strangers are not permitted in the
dormitory, only the students and nuns.”
“What of terrorists? It is not practical. I am
sorry Larissa. You must find another school.”
“I do not need your permission. I have been
accepted by the school and reserved a room. I am going.”
“I am not just your father. I am king.”
The princess began to cry. She turned her back so her
father would not witness her tears. She had guessed at what he would
say. But she hoped he would understand. She could no longer live with
him. Why could he not see that? Would she ever be free?
“You promised to stop,” she cried out. “But you
continue to come,” she could not finish the sentence in fear she
would be overheard outside the chamber door. Finally, she screamed,
“You monster,” and ran out of the chamber, her face contorted,
her whole body twisted in agony.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sleep evaded Princess Larissa. For hours, she turned
over and over in her bed. Then she heard footsteps outside her door.
Or was it a dream after a fitful night? She asked herself.
“Larissa, Larissa,” the king called out.
No, it was not a dream, it was a nightmare. Her
father was drunk.
“Go away,” she cried out.
“I want to talk,” the king shouted.
“No, go away. Please,” Larissa pleaded. Her door
opened and light flooded into the room.
“Larissa, I just came to talk. I know how upset you
are. But you must understand your place is here with me in the
palace.”
“Daddy, please. Go away.”
“I just want to talk.” The king staggered
forward.
“Do not come closer,” Larissa held a bejeweled,
ceremonial knife in her hand (that she had taken from the palace
storehouse).
“What is that in your hand, dear child? A knife, do
you think your father would harm you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Please go away. No more, no more
Father. I can’t take it anymore.” Larissa began to cry.
The king came forward to console his only daughter.
“Larissa, I love you dear.”
“Daddy, stop.”
But still the king came forward, his arms opened
wide. Larissa plunged the knife into her father’s chest. The king,
drunk and bewildered, stumbled backwards. Larissa still held the
knife in her hand as the king fell to the floor—the color of its
blade now matching its ruby red handle.
Larissa looked down at her father as he gasped for
air. Horrified, she could not move.
Finally, she screamed, “Help, help.”
But it was too late, the king was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Prime Minister would stay in office (there was a
vote in the House, but those loyal to him won out and the majority
party prevailed). None of this relieved Prime Minister Westerbrook.
He no longer cared for the job.
The king was dead (with Princess Larissa under house
arrest in the palace) and plague ravaged the land. The dying spilled
out of the hospitals in massive numbers and died at home. Hospitals
could offer no viable treatment. So, what was the use of clogging up
the health system with patients who could not be cured?
Still, the minister of health resigned and was
replaced with another talking head babbling on about the nature of
disease on TV but offering no solution—those who might have helped
at Zion Industries stayed silent, fearing criminal liability.
If only Reverend Flowers had not publicly fingered
Zion Industries, a cure might have been found, the Prime Minister
thought. The Minister of Justice could subpoena records but could not
compel those few who really understood the virus to help in finding a
cure. It was unfathomable to the Prime Minister that Zion Industries
had a cure but was keeping it secret. That would be diabolical. No,
if they had a cure, they would provide it to the government. Why risk
the fallout? Still, it was hard to say. Many in the ministry of
defense, who once worked side by side with Zion Industries, had
sought legal counsel and resigned. This too complicated the
issue—secrets, lies, deception, who really knew the truth?
The public believed the virus would eventually die
out (like so many before). This, the Prime Minister knew was wishful
thinking. He knew the hard reality; this gnawed at him. But if the
public was told, panic would rule; the country would fall apart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several buildings on the edge of the compound housed
the sick including Star. Each day after school Parker Jane would
visit. Star’s illness changed everything for Parker Jane. They
shared more than a world; they were interrelated parts of a shared
destiny. Star grew pale and thin and spoke in whispers. Parker Jane
worried about Star but tried not to show it. Parker Jane would stroke
her hair and smile. But Star knew the truth. Star surprisingly had no
trouble facing the reality of her imminent death. Star worried too
about what her dear friend would do without her. They truly loved one
another.
One day Star had request, “Parker Jane please
promise me you will pray for Princess Larissa.”
Parker Jane looked at her friend, kindly. “Yes
Star, I will pray for Princess Larissa if you wish.”
“Thank you. There must be some reason why she
killed the king, perhaps it was an assassin and she is being blamed.
Princess Larissa is a good person. I just wished I knew what really
happened.”
“I don’t know Star. It is very strange. There is
so much that is bad in this world.”
“My one wish is to find out the truth before
I die.”
“Before you die, don’t say that Star.” Parker
Jane almost became angry but the gentle soul before her prevented
that. “There’s always hope.”
“It is too late for me, I think. I know
you think stories about God are just fairy tales. So many people
including Reverend Flowers say so many things, so they will seem
important. But God doesn't care if a person is
important or not. God is love, Parker Jane.
Star was weak but radiant, luminous even. Parker Jane
had never believed in Heaven until that moment as she looked at the
light that flashed in Star’s eyes. Parker Jane realized that Star
would never ask for prayers for herself but only for others like
Princess Larissa. Parker Jane knew too that Star had played a kind of
trick on her (even though her concern for Princess Larissa was
genuine). Star in her own way was teaching Parker Jane how to pray.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Princess Larissa made a decision. She would tell her
story to the public. Princess Larissa had told her story to both her
lawyer and the examining magistrate. Still, the Ministry of Justice
sought to charge her with murder—this necessitated Princess Larissa
going directly to the public for sympathy, for support. Of course,
Princess Larissa dreaded airing her secrets out in public. But she
had no choice. She would be interviewed by Chaisley Citrone.
Dressed in a plain white shirt—her hair pulled back
in a ponytail—Princess Larissa sat at a table across for Chaisley
Citrone. The interview began with the question everyone in the
kingdom asked, “What happened on the night of your father’s
death?”
“I must go further back to explain,” Princess
Larissa replied.
“Yes. Okay then. Let us go back. What went wrong
between you and your father?”
“After the death of my mother,” Princess Larissa
paused and looked to the ground, her lips trembling, “my father
came to my room. I was in bed sleeping. I awoke. He was crying. He
was drunk. He was so sad.” Princess Larissa paused again as tears
ran down her face.
“Your father came into your bed. Then what
happened?”
“I hugged him. Then, it started.”
“What started?”
“Sex, he entered me. It happened so suddenly. I
asked him to stop. But he did not.”
“Did this happen more than once?”
“Yes, I begged him to stop. He would promise. Make
excuses about being drunk. But it happened over and over again.
Finally, I told him that I must leave the palace. He refused to let
me go. Later that night, he returned to my room, once again drunk. I
panicked and picked up a knife. He came at me. I said stop, stop.
But he kept on coming. The blade was so sharp. He fell.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Parker Jane watched the interview with Princess
Larissa with Star in her sickroom. Star seemed to already know in
advance what came as a shock to the entire country. She never lost
faith in Princess Larissa.
On the day of Star’s death, Parker Jane could
almost hear Star calling out to her. Parker Jane feared Star would be
sleeping and they would not be able to talk. To Parker Jane’s
surprise, Star was awake and smiling. “Princess Larissa was just
here. She talked with me.” Parker Jane thought Star was imagining
it all, that it was all a hallucination. But no, others said that
Princess Larissa had indeed visited the ward. After the interview
with Chaisley Citrone, the ministry of justice accepted a plea
from Princess Larissa of manslaughter. Prime Minister Westerbrook
then pardoned her. The monarchy was dissolved. (Princess Larissa
agreed since she was the only heir to the throne.) Larissa would not
become queen; she would remain forever a princess.
Star beamed with happiness as she recalled the visit.
“Parker Jane, Princess Larissa has agreed to be our
sister. I told her all about you. She wants to meet you. She said she
will visit soon.”
Parker Jane bent down and kissed her dear friend on
the cheek. A few hours later, Star died.
There is no known record of the final days of our
ancestors. Shortly after the death of Star, Parker Jane’s diary
ends. She did, however, make a few more entries. Princess Larissa did
visit the compound for the funeral of Star. After this, Parker Jane
and Princess Larissa became like sisters.
In the final months, the Prime Minister imposed
martial law. Anarchy prevailed. Everyone, it seemed became infected.
After that, the whirlwind began. It was miles long and
ferocious; it passed from one side of the country to the other,
destroying everything in its path. It returned again and again. So
much was destroyed. There are no records at all beyond a certain
date. We do know a few hardy souls survived, in the debris and dust
of the whirlwind, in the falling darkness, in the rubble of those
dark days.
