WILL
JAMES
Copyright
© 2020 Will James
All
rights reserved.
ISBN:
9798616459060
The old ones, ghosts now, 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. 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
of those last days. 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.
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. 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, the God protocol. But with this, from what I
can gather, there is some confusion.”
“Find out,” Prime Minister Westerbrook was livid.
WINTER
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
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
“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
“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 to 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. 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.
.
PRINCESS LARISSA
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. Watching 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.”
A WHITE HORSE
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
“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
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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 ultimately 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 be 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 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.
“Did you ever hear the story about the evacuation
of Houston after Hurricane Katrina?” Terry asked.
“No.”
“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
“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
“You were 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
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 planned 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.
THE FALLING SKY
“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
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
“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 absolutely
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 decided 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.
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