The Loss of What We Never Had

by Carolyn Thorman

  The home stretch. I rowed counting each pull. “One.” Then, “Two.” At twenty, I ran out of steam. As the shore came closer, I saw an Appalachian landscape of empty bottles, tires, and tall weeds sprouting through the coils of a mattress. The foliage on the shrubs shone black from the oily wake of tankers. Behind me, Gibraltar glowed pink in the morning light. Weird, the sight of busses and cars streaming along the coastal road. Drivers off to everyday work on what to them was an ordinary day.

  Gliding through shallow water, I bore down on the oars and kept them raised, allowing the trajectory to carry the boat ashore. As soon as the bow scraped sand, I struggled to my feet. Not trusting myself to get Hamid and me off the boat in one piece, after making sure the hull was stable, I lifted him over the gunwale and lay him in a patch of dry scrub. Then I climbed out and gave the rubber craft a farewell shove. Instead of floating out to sea as a healthy boat would do, it exhaled, shriveled, and collapsed slowly into the mud.

  25

  The Archbishop DeAlba’s hacienda—what the locals called it his summer palace, sat midway between Cadiz and Jerez de la Fontera. The estate overlooked pastures where perky goats danced in the grass, their demented yellow eyes following Zak’s Porsche as it crept along the fence. A uniformed guard stepped from a kiosk, glanced at Zak’s ID and waved him on. The guard paid for by taxpayers? Zak wondered. Or by the diocese? Zak passed a few stone outbuildings, wound through the shadows under a wisteria-draped portal and accelerated onto the driveway. Fields of flowers were separated by low-growing boxwood. In the center of a rose bed, a figure in black raised a hoe high above a floribunda and with one hefty swing brought it down with such force Zak could have sworn the earth cringed. He pulled up on the gravel berm, parked, and picked his way around the rows of thorny hybrid teas. “Sorry I’m late, your Excellency.”

  DeAlba rested his arms atop the hoe. “Take it up with God.” Born in Granada and educated in Salamanca, the Archbishop was well over six foot, and slender to the point of emaciation. Magenta buttons ran from the collar to the waist of his dusty cassock. The wind whipped a few blond hairs from under his zucchetto; tarnish rimmed his pectoral cross.

  Zak knelt to kiss the Archbishop’s ring, then rose, slapping dust from his slacks.

  “These Queen Elizabeth climbers,” DeAlba complained. “Prima donnas, typical Brits.” With the hoe slung over his shoulder, he waded through a pile of clippings. “The garden gobbles most of my time,” he said in a voice as thin as his physique. “But I think outdoor exercise benefits mankind more than my working out in a gym. Agree?” Without waiting for a reply, the Archbishop turned to the hacienda, started forward and motioned for Zak to follow.

  The walled one-story mansion would fit nicely in the suburbs of a Saharan city. Through an arched entry in the limestone wall, the house was built around an inner courtyard, Arabic-style. Zak followed the Archbishop along a tiled walkway and waited while he unlocked, then threw open the massive oak door. The foyer was cool and dark as a wine cellar. The only light came from low-watt sconces. Everyone knew the Archbishop maintained one of the more well-heeled dioceses in Spain: Zak was awed, but not surprised at the opulence. Louis XV armchairs in groups of three, a library table draped in red brocade, matching love seats. Particles of dust rode a beam of golden light shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Like walking down a sidewalk on the sun, Zak thought.

  The Archbishop rested his hands on the shoulders of a wingback chair. “Sit, please.” In the hallway, an elderly woman leaning on a cane—either DeAlba’s mother or his housekeeper—loomed in the shadows. “We have a guest,” the Archbishop called in his soft voice, then turning back to Zak, offered coffee, tea, or Coke. Brandy was Zak’s choice after his Excellency said that’s what he, himself, would have, and would pour for both of them. The woman disappeared down a corridor.

  “You got my email on Pope Gregory’s itinerary, I hope,” DeAlba said. “His helicopter will land Sunday on the roof of the hospital, the only helipad around. My staff cobbled together a procession that will accommodate the Pope’s entourage. Short and sweet. The only thing His Holiness has to do is cut the statue’s paper cover. The dedication prayers, and quick as a button, fly back to Rome.”

  Zak frowned. “Button?”

  “And he can stay in Rome,” DeAlba snapped.

  So, Zak thought, DeAlba’s on the outs with the Holy See. Could have something to do with the fact he’d been passed over as Cardinal. But why be so upfront about it? Looking for support, Zak decided, seeking allies for his next shot at promotion. The Knights were gaining political traction: support from the royal family, albeit covertly, most of Parliament and the conservative CEO’s of major players: Zara, Fiat, the Bank of Santander.

  The Archbishop drew a bottle of brandy from a Sheraton sideboard, filled two snifters, and came back with the bottle under his arm. He handed one glass to Zak and set the other on an end table. The woman in black limped into the room with a silver tray. Zak helped her lower it to the table. She unrolled plastic wrap from neatly arranged almond pralines.

  “Sold by the Sisters of Mercy,” the Archbishop said reaching for his snifter. “Cottage industry.” He tipped his glass toward Zak, who lifted his own drink. “To the Inquisition.” DeAlba sipped, then held the snifter it to the light. “A little woody. From Coruna Vineyards, I won’t buy from the British bodegas.” Inspecting the glass, he said, “Getting back to this coming Sunday, no slip-ups, agree? No embarrassments, no surprises.”

  “It’s under control,” Zak quickly changed the subject. “The Holy Father gives a dedication speech?”

  The Archbishop’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Wish you hadn’t asked. The draft I saw praises the goodwill between the Vatican and the Anti-defamation Islamic Federation and goes on to commend the peaceful relationship between Spain and Morocco, and—

  “But it isn’t peaceful at all,” Zak interrupted.

  “Preaching to the choir. The Holy See thinks we can reach the Islamists through love and understanding and wants us to dialogue about the similarities of the faiths.” The Archbishop sighed. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my idea. Anyway, the committee on inter-religious relations is responsible for giving His Holiness some very bad advice.”

  Zak studied DeAlba’s flushed face, heard the quiver in the soft voice and decided to make points with DeAlba by throwing the Pope under the bus—verbally, of course. Assure the Archbishop that no way would the Knights support cock-a-mammie dialogues with the jihadists. Publicized discussions guaranteed to show the Christians as slop-headed fools, and the Muslims as models of reason. Zak wondered if the Pope understood, or acknowledged taquiya, the middle-eastern art of the political lie. The irony was, the Muslims were amateurs compared to the spokesmen for the Vatican.

  Zak wanted to make it clear that the Knights were solidly in the Archbishop’s camp. Show loyalty. His Excellency was writing checks for arms and supplies. “Excuse me, Father, for being so outspoken, but the problem isn’t with the advisors to the Holy See. Despite how much his Holiness tries to hide behind his bureaucrats, he, himself, calls the shots.”

  Zak sat back with satisfaction as he watched DeAlba begin to smile, then catch himself. “The question is,” Zak said. “Why is the Pope appeasing the Muslims?” Zak knew he spoke the words the Archbishop dare not say himself. “His silence when a hundred Christians were beheaded in Raqqa.”

  DeAlba nodded slowly as if grateful to Zak for acknowledging a reality he, himself, could never say aloud.

  Zak’s pulse quickened. “Look how His Holiness ignores his church in Syria,” Zak said, heady with his power to stir shit.

  DeAlba’s jaw tightened. “The… uhh… parish in Lebanon is being rebuilt by the Shiites. our people getting more help from the enemy—including Hezbollah—than from
the Vatican.”

  “A betrayal of the Papal vows,” Zak said.

  “Furthermore, while Damascus was being bombed, where was our Holy Father?” DeAlba answered himself. “At the London Hyatt, a workshop on global economic strategies.” The Archbishop took a long swallow of brandy.

  Too much alcohol all at once, Zak thought.

  Silence except for the tick of the grandfather clock. Through the window Zak watched a crow land on the stone wall. A leaf drifted past the glass. “Does the Holy Father know Spain’s assertive position on the jihadists?” he asked. “In fact, has he even seen the statue he’s about to dedicate?”

  “He must have. It was on YouTube with an interview of the artist.”

  “Then he saw the scabbard on her left side, and Her right hand on the handle about to draw the sword.”

  “Not handle, hilt.”

  “His Holiness couldn’t have missed the symbol. Our Blessed Mother ready to fight for the faith.”

  “Ready for this? He says the statue depicts Our Blessed Mother showing us peace by returning the sword to the scabbard. Putting it back in.”

  Stunned, Zak said, “No, no. She’s drawing the sword out.”

  The Archbishop selected a praline from the tray. “I tried to clarify this with His Holiness. He said the artist was divinely inspired, therefore, there was no argument.”

  “How does he know what inspired the artist?”

  “He’s the Pope.”

  Zak ran his fingers through his hair. “He doesn’t understand Spain.”

  The Archbishop leaned back to brush praline crumbs from his chest. “Oh, yes he does. The mask of naivety. Psychiatrists call it pseudo-stupidity. If you say you don’t know what a cobra is, you have no responsibility to kill it.”

  “Can you communicate with him/” Zak asked.

  DeAlba’s lips tightened. “I took a vow of obedience...”

  Clever, Zak thought. DeAlba’s way of saying despite his reservations, he remained a company man.

  “But meanwhile, we have to deal with the jihadists and the baby,” DeAlba said.

  Here it comes.

  “A hostage was an incredibly bad move on your part. What were you thinking?” DeAlba asked.

  “It’s all under control.”

  “Where is the boy now?”

  Zak pretended to examine a burned almond on a praline. How to confess both Paige and the baby had gone missing? Paige not returning his calls. No answer to his pounding on her door. Her father’s place was eerily empty. A flash of anger at Paige for putting him in this position. “He’s doing fine,” Zak said, hoping that would take care of it.

  “Father Estaban tells me he’s going to place the baby with the Perez family, the Seville Volkswagen-dealer people,” the Archbishop said.

  Estaban chaired the Board of Catholic Services.

  “The child will have a good life,” Zak said. More than that, Zak thought with a flash of envy. Private Catholic schools, clothes, cars, university, a profession. A life of living the faith and enjoying the respect of the Christian community.

  The Archbishop moved his hand in dismissal. “Money’s not the issue.”

  “I never said it—” Zak began.

  “The Perez grandfather contributed ten thousand euros, just like that.” DeAlba snapped his fingers. “To carry the mayor’s coffin in the funeral procession. The jihadists are lucky their offspring will want for nothing.”

  “Only I need to warn you,” Zak said, “there might be a problem with Tariq, the father, the imam. He’ll be very unhappy when I break the news we’re not giving the child back. I won’t tell him, of course, until the Pope leaves the grounds. We can’t put His Holiness in harm’s way.”

  The Archbishop smiled slightly as if considering exactly what the jihadists might do if they acted out what the Archbishop himself would do, given the opportunity. “I assume you’ve come up with a good reason to tell him why you’re not returning the baby as promised.?”

  “For the good of the baby’s soul,” Zak said. “Best I can do,” Zak admitted.

  “Oh dear, such bullshit.”

  Zak winced at DeAlba’s language. Then felt a twinge of elation as he remembered clergy allowed themselves profanity only in the presence of peers, never around subordinates, so this was a sign the Archbishop considered Zak a colleague. “I’ll work on something better,” he said.

  “The mother will cause a problem, too?” DeAlba asked.

  Zak looked toward the window. Decided to lay it all out. “She would have if the Emir’s Army hadn’t—hate to put it bluntly—chopped off her head.” Responding to the Archbishop’s sharp intake of breath, Zak went on. “The Army got the idea she was colluding with the enemy, meaning us, the Knights because one of our own men agreed—the guy’s a moron—to take her to the vacant church where we were holding her baby. Naturally, she wanted to be with the kid. Do you know Saint Isadore’s cathedral? The bombed-out church Franco—?”

  “It’s in my Diocese.”

  “Anyway, on the way there, the Army’s goons forced our van off the road. The mother jumped out, and the Muslims caught up with her.” Zak ran his finger under his throat. “Trying to find her, our man Bassem lost his wallet. The next morning when he’s out poking around, just his luck the American woman walking her dog comes across the mother’s head. Our guy spots the American. Maybe she sees him, maybe she doesn’t. If she did, she would assume he’s the killer.”

  “Better find out what she saw.”

  “We tried. The Guardia’s men on my payroll tell me she reported the crime. But even though they’re computer savvy, they can’t access—or find—her statement. We even went to her apartment.” Careful, Zak thought. No hint the guys roughed her up. “To ask for her copy of the police report,” Zak continued. “She didn’t have it.”

  “Or give it to you,” the Archbishop said. “And why should she?”

  “Bottom line, we don’t know what she knows.”

  DeAlba’s eyes darkened as he studied Zak.

  “I see what you’re thinking,” Zak said. “There could be problems. Maybe not.” Keep it vague. “The jihadists aren’t all that smart. We’ll outfox them.”

  A dog barked in the distance. The clock on the mantel chimed the first four notes of the Kyrie Elision. The Archbishop peeled off an almond stuck to his cassock and rolled it in a napkin. “I think, son, you’re seriously underestimating the ferocity of our Muslim brothers.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “They have guns.”

  “Ours are better.”

  The Archbishop shook his head sadly. “On and on. The same war, Christians, Moors, reenactment battles like the foolish Americans do their silly Civil War enactments.”

  He rose, crossed the room to the window and with his hands behind his back, spoke to the courtyard. “The church hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since Mohammad came to us in five seventy AD. Now they’re swarming the globe. ISIS, Al-Qaida, the Emir’s Army, Boko Haram. When Saint Isabella kicked them out, she thought it was done, They’re back.” With renewed vigor, the Archbishop faced Zak. “Just as we planned, our Knights have to kick them out again. Same old, same old, war without end.” He slowly returned to his chair and inched it closer to the pralines.

  “Our war won’t be like that,” Zak said knowing full well that of course, it would be like that. But he didn’t want to spook DeAlba. “There’s technology. Like the American’s Desert Storm. Plus, I’ve convinced the Prime Minister to double the ranks of the Guardia Civil.” Zak’s lie almost plausible. “The US Navy in Rota’s on alert.” He drew back to resist the temptatio
n to lay it on thicker. “If only there were enough Kevlar vests.” He stopped. No begging. Just a hint.

  The Archbishop raised his head. “How much for each?”

  Zak looked beyond the Archbishop’s shoulder, pretending to feel awkward. “You’ve already given so much.”

  “It’s been a good year.”

  Strike while the iron’s hot. “No insurance claims to pay out?” Zak asked.

  “Only the usual sand storms in Roccio.”

  The Diocese was the insurer of its own assets, collecting premiums from each parish, amounts that included processing and administrative surcharges. The Archbishop would then turn and pay a major carrier like, say, Lloyd’s of London, for a comprehensive policy. He doled out reimbursement for individual parish’s claim as he saw fit. The premiums collected from a hundred and eighteen parishes produced a discretionary slush fund. The best part, the cash flowed with no oversight.

  “How much per Kevlar vest?” The Archbishop repeated.

  “Kurt has the numbers.”

  “Your German accountant?”

  “Yes, Kurt.”

  “I’ll be waiting for his invoice.” DeAlba slapped his knees and stood. “But I’m taking too much of your day.”

  Zak nodded at the guard in the kiosk and followed the service road to the C 3383. Where was Paige, anyway? Her downstairs neighbor, Casey the Obnoxious, Zak called him, might know. Worth a try.

  The Western sun cast the meadow in rosy light. Where’s she off to? Along with the neighbor, who else might know? A goat grazed the fence line. “Why in hell would a woman with a baby leave the apartment in the first place?” Zak asked aloud. The goat lifted its head, stopped chewing and smirked as if even if he knew the answer, he wouldn’t tell.

  26

  I watched lifeboat spin slow circles as if being sucked down a bathtub drain. When the surf swallowed the last of the vinyl hull, I pulled myself together and feeling like a mother bird, assembled a grassy nest for Hamid. Physically he was okay except for an abrasion, a dime-sized patch of scraped skin under his eye on his right cheek. Considering what he’d been through the damage could have been worse. Nevertheless, he was screaming his head off.