by Doug Walker
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On the road there was more than adequate time to discuss the present situation and debate, sometimes heatedly, the worth of modern America as opposed to ancient Iberia and Europe.
Guy always insisted, “America means something!”
The talk went back and forth, the Spanish with their homogeneous population, the Brits with Normans, Saxons, French, a few Germans, plus Scots, Welsh and Irish.
Mary mentioned America as a melting pot, an unfinished nation, a land of regeneration and renewal for recent immigrants. “There is a national destiny,” she insisted.
Guy said the melting pot was more like a stew with each nationality clinging to certain features of their identity while the general flavor spreads throughout. He hit on what he thought was an even better explanation. America was an orchestra, a symphony made up of many elements offering infinite possibilities for composition and expression. Colors, textures, volume, tones with no boundaries! Small or large, chamber orchestras or philharmonics.
Then he found to his sorrow that he had to define “orchestra” because they didn’t come into their own until the 19th Century, long after these ancients were born. So the talk of strings, woodwinds, brass, percussion and special instruments such as pianos, organs, harps and celestas consumed hours of explanation.
Then there was the entire new field of modern orchestras moving into rock, jazz, disco, tango, música ranchera, bossa nova, world music and so forth.
And the ancients had discovered the atomic bomb laden with its ethics: Invent first, then decide what to do with the invention.
The English seemed more in tune with the dynamics, life on the edge in the modern world. The Spanish seemed to hearken to a slow gaited life of quiet enjoyment.
“We Americans,” Guy explained, “ponder the existence of God and continually fret over what is good and what is evil, often falling back on the Shakespearian line, ‘Nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’”
“And some believe,” he added, “as the Enlightenment thinkers did, that once every aspect of life is gathered to science, all things in this world will come crystal clear.”
Doña María gave birth during the road show. She took a week off, and then found a student sitter for the infant, Roberto María Botella King. Guy was happy, but harbored nagging doubts about what might ultimately become of them all. He was particularly concerned with Jesus and Doria’s insistence on returning to Spain to find their considerable stash of gold and silver, tucked away in both Madrid and Lisbon. It would be worth a fortune, if it hadn’t already been discovered.
Then there would be the task of obtaining passports or other travel documents for the flight to Spain. And the reverse cultural shock of Spanish citizens from the 16th Century returning to 2005 Spain.
They returned to Chapel Hill after the first set of bookings, now with an agent clamoring for another road trip. Their success had been widely heralded. Then another shock. UNC President Falkner had passed away suddenly during their absence and had been replaced by a Dr. Shaft. Dutifully, Guy presented himself to the office of the new president.
Oddly enough, he wasn’t offered a handshake, or a seat. “I’ve heard stories about this Spanish Armada thing, King. A road show, a vaudeville type thing. It doesn’t sit well with the academic community.”
Guy frowned. “I’m totally taken by surprise. It’s a type of academic seminar. Everyone in the Spanish Armada is an expert in his or her field. It’s totally authentic and has been well received.”
“Not what I heard. A very responsible member of our faculty has told me that some outlandish lies have been told during that bizarre show, things that any historian would know are false.”
A light came on. “That person would not have been Ed Kellerman by any chance?”
“What if it was? He’s just completed his doctorate. A thoroughgoing historian.”
“He’s also been after my job. Are you an historian, Dr. Shaft?”
“Mathematics is my field. No room for dreamers there, a precise science. Anyway, King, I’m sorry about this, but I’m naming Kellerman to chair the history department. You’ll still have a job, but you won’t be involved in graduate work. Kellerman will assign you your tasks. Now I’m a busy man, cleaning up some of the mess Falkner left me.”
“Dr. Falkner was a good man,” Guy said grimly. He was tempted to walk around the desk and slap Shaft two or three times, but he calmed himself. “Of course my resignation is effective as of this moment. So goodbye.” He turned and started out of the office.
“Not so fast, King. You have a contract with UNC. If you don’t honor it, you’ll never work again as an academic.” Shaft’s face was red and he was on his feet. Again Guy was tempted to slap the pudgy mathematician around a few times, but again he resisted. At least he had gotten a rise out of him.
“My contract is for my chairing the history department. It is not to conduct orientation classes for freshmen. So I’m through here. Your style isn’t to my liking.”
“I’m president of UNC and you better know it. I’ll give you, uh, a week to change your mind. I’m not cutting your salary, King. Even though I should. You’ll never get a deal like this again.”
“Nor will I want one.” Guy was smiling now. Shaft was edgy. He worried about faculty reaction over his decision. Kellerman had conned him and maybe he was beginning to doubt that slimeball’s integrity. Anyway, he felt a wave of freedom sweep over him. This was not an end to his career, this was a new beginning.”
The full group had a high old time that night. They were up to ten now with the baby sitter and Roberto María Botella King. Wine flowed, and there was a huge roast beef with potatoes, carrots and onions. Somehow they had all jammed into Guy and María’s condo.
At one point Guy asked the Brits if they had any desire to return to England.
“Not me,” Lord Percy said. “I’m the toast of the gay bar scene. Everyone loves my accent and my slant on life. They marvel at my knowledge of Greek and Latin. I’ve been offered two or three jobs. And I can walk around free as a gay bird. I’m accepted.”
“Tell them about your trip,” Courtney tossed in.
“Quite right. A group of us have chartered a bus. We’re going to march in a gay parade in New York City. Costumes, floats, what do they say, the whole nine yards.”
“I hope our sessions on AIDs have been heeded,” Guy said.
“Jolly Oh! I’m a poster boy for safe sex.” He glanced at Courtney. “I’m afraid my countryman has been reduced from major to a private in cupid’s army. Love is a great leveler.”
Courtney scowled. He was seated next to Mary McKay and they were obviously holding hands under the table. “I’m settled here in Chapel Hill.” He paused and raised his wine glass. “I’d like to toast this lovely lady at my side and announce that she has agreed to become my bride.” Mary grinned like a Cheshire cat and raised her glass. Everyone stood and performed a bottom’s-up toast. Then more wine was poured. It was a night to remember.
“And I couldn’t be happier that our own Lord Percy has hit the depths of depravity here in this marvelous country and frequently rubs shoulders and other body parts with his tight little phalanx of perverts,” Courtney said, then added, “degenerates all.”
It was Percy’s time to grin. He lifted his glass to toast the group.
The following day Guy got together with Jesus and Doria. Doña María was also present. “We have a substantial amount of money from the sale of coins and have actually shown a slight profit from the road show. If we go to Spain, and there’s a problem getting travel papers, we might find your cache gone.”
“Not likely,” Doria said.
“But possible. Entire neighborhoods may have been razed since the 16th Century. One question is whether we can change history. This has troubled me from the beginning and I never really tried.”
“I don’t understand,” Jesus said.
“Well, obviously, I knew what was going to happen to the
Armada. I did warn Captain Alavares that there would be fire ships. I did pay careful attention to stocking La Anunciada with food, water and wine. But I knew no one would believe if I let slip the entire story.”
“So you can’t change history, even though we are here and we should be long dead in Spain. Is that your point?”
“Not exactly. That you are here was likely meant to be, if we think in terms of an Eternal Father, or fate, whatever. Here’s my suggestion. We’ve had experience with the time travel formula. It’s a risky business, I allow. But what if you and I, Jesus, went back to Spain in 1589 and retrieved the gold and brought it back here?”
The thought pleased Jesus according to the happy look on his face. “You and Jesus and me,” Doña María insisted.
“But, darling,” Guy said. “We must think of the baby, Roberto. And why endanger yourself for no reason?”
“My reason is to accompany my husband. And you must remember I have property in Spain. My family controls land, houses, a winery, gold, silver and other possessions. We even have grants to land in the New World.”
“I assume you mean South America,” Guy said. “But the risk is too great. I think Jesus would be willing to accompany me.”
“You got that right,” Jesus chimed in. “The sooner the better.”
“You can control the time and location?” Doria asked.
“Yes, it’s part of the procedure. The wine and chant are standard, but the Latin ritual is tailored to location and time.”
“If this thing works that easily,” Doria added, “You could go back a few days and pick sure things at the race track.”
“I suppose. But we might jinx ourselves. From all my readings and research, and they are considerable, this procedure was stumbled upon by cloistered monks and is not meant to be used for profit or self aggrandizement.”
“But we seek gold,” Doria asserted.
“Yes, but not stolen gold. Gold obtained in a semi-legitimate manner, if you catch my meaning.”
“Your meaning is crystal clear, Guy. And at the time this gold was achieved the method was well inside the law, and even nobles of the church involved themselves now and then.”
“Whatever. But let us make plans and let me get the wording straight for the time and location. If we go, we will go as who we were before. I as captain, Jesus as my sergeant and Doña María, if you insist, as a cadet.”
“For entry I will be a cadet and then I will reveal myself as heir to the Botella fortune and a woman married to the good Captain Don Pedro García.”
“Well said,” Guy grinned. “And I suppose there will be suitable celebration, dinners, feasts and so forth.”
“Yes, and additional consecrations by the true church as opposed to this modern one that has discarded Latin and has the priest facing the congregation. What blasphemies I have endured for the sake of love.”
“Oh, yes,” Guy chided. “How you have suffered. Forced to take showers, wear clean undergarments and use modern plumbing facilities. Not to mention giving painless birth in a modern hospital with trained doctors.”
“There are certain advantages,” Doña María agreed. “And we shall return after our visit and we will save dramatically by not having to pay airfare and eat that horrid airline food.”
“If I might add a personal note,” Guy said, “and I have not fully digested this facet of the plan, but while I harbor no bitterness against the moronic Dr. Shaft, there is something to be said for punishing Ed Kellerman for his perfidy.”
“I offered to kill him for you,” Jesus said.
“Yes. And I appreciate that. But since coming to America you’ve become acquainted with our laws. Pulling off such an escapade has its pitfalls. And, in my mind, death would be too good for such a lying scoundrel. My proposal is that we take him with us and leave him in Spain.”
Silence for a moment, and then Doña María burst out laughing. “Holy Christ, what a delicious fate. I can’t wait to see this story unfold. How do we lure him into our trap?”
“Very simple.” Turning to Doria, he said, “Sister Frenesi is taking English at the university. Kellerman, lecher that he is, has shown great interest in the beautiful young lady whose Spanish is perfect. Also, President Shaft is taking heat from the academic community over my forced resignation. So we have Frenesi invite Kellerman over for dinner to make peace and possibly discuss my rejoining the department. He’ll come running.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jesus said, slapping Doria on the back. “Is my captain a genius, or what?”
Poncho, who had been listening intently, was afraid Guy might leave him out of this caper. The small canine would be watchful and ensure that he wasn’t left behind with Roberto’s sitter.
He remembered a past life as a page, when he had gotten into a drinking contest and slept like the dead for twelve hours, only to awaken to see his master and the last of the vessels disappear into the channel fog on their way to conquer France. There he was, cold, wet and hung over, standing on the Dover beach. That was another short and not too happy life. By the time he foot slogged back to London he was dying of the grippe.
The flashback depressed him. To rid his mind of the thought he turned to metaphysics, a discipline Aristotle had described as a general study of existence or reality. Some moments in his checkered lives left him in a maze of confusion, but Zen meditation or a deep plunge into philosophy would generally bring him face to face with the reality that carrying water and chopping wood are the activities of the Buddha. Or, another common way of expressing it, “The everyday mind is Buddha.”