The Matriarch Matrix

by Maxime Trencavel

  Glancing behind, Michaela scans to see if her nutty brother hasn’t lost the procession. But her mom, just as nutty as her brother, is right on their tail, with the biggest grin as she is simply loving this too. The apple does not fall far from this tree. Right behind her mom’s car, Mei is whipping around too in her purple Mini Cooper rental.

  “Peter,” yells Michaela. “What did that crazy Kurdish woman teach you? I can’t believe driving laws in Kurdistan are that much different than here.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Peter replies, “Pappy wanted us to drive him through the fog one last time. He so wanted to say goodbye to the fog that clouded his brain for the last nine decades. That object fragment worked wonders to rid him of the fog.”

  Unsympathetic, Michaela yells back, “Peter, you could slow down a bit. I’ve read of the gory things that happen to people who misjudge these turns. You only got your driver’s license a week ago. You aren’t in that armored pickup truck with your crazy Kurdish girlfriend shooting some assault gun out the windshield. Those stories your priest friend told at dinner were beyond belief. Slow down now. Please.”

  Just as unsympathetic, her brother replies, “I can’t slow down. We need to be on time to meet Jean-Paul at the cemetery. He said we need to time everything precisely, for reasons he couldn’t reveal. You know those Jesuits—they always have something up those long black sleeves of theirs.” He smiles, remembering all the mysteries surrounding his tall black-clad friend, and adds, “And you can count on whatever that is to be something good.”

  As Peter drops the speed down just a few kilometers per hour, he fondly remembers his last moments with Pappy. After his convalescence in Rome, Peter went immediately to see his beloved pappy, not even stopping at his own apartment to change. Pappy’s condition had deteriorated in Peter’s absence, and when Peter entered his room, he was fully bedridden, with tubes coming out of his nose and mouth and everywhere else.

  Nine decades of restless, physically draining nights of dreams that could not be remembered had taken their toll on poor Pappy. Barely able to see, he was elated as he heard his grandson enter his room at the Angel’s Rest convalescent home. He was even more elated as Peter told the complete story of the oral traditions, the lineage of those afflicted like the two of them, and how Pappy’s faithful teaching of the oral traditions assisted Peter’s search across the lush, beautiful Anatolian hills and mountains.

  As Peter opened his backpack and showed him the object fragment, Pappy came back to life again. He’d never truly believed he would see the object in his lifetime, or even part of it. He had even given up his faith in Peter’s success, knowing his final days were coming.

  Pappy held the object. Fondled it. Caressed it. And then kissed it. He asked Peter gently if he could sleep with it. Of course, replied Peter, knowing without the fragment, Peter would have the anxious violent nights again.

  Pappy had faithfully taught a lifetime of reciting the oral traditions, suffered through tormented nights with never-ending turmoil, and endured the mornings after mornings of misery, sorting out dreams that couldn’t be touched. And for Peter, giving his pappy the first and final relief of his life was worth all that Peter had been through over the past two months.

  The world had been at the edge of war, and Peter couldn’t care less. World peace was at hand, and Peter couldn’t care less. Only Pappy’s chance at peace, which was finally here, meant anything to Peter. Except for one other person, whom Peter kept the memories of to himself.

  The next morning, Peter came back to Angel’s Rest, groggy and head hurting from some dream—something he could no longer recall without his other half comforting him. Wide awake, sipping his morning tea and smiling, Pappy went on and on about how good it was to have real sleep. And the dream, not the horrible dream, but the clear one, was something worth waiting a lifetime for. If only his ancestors had known what he now knew.

  He held Peter’s hand, looked him in the eye, and said, “Peter, you have to repeat after me and memorize this for you and your children.”

  Peter, having thought the oral traditions were over, slumped back in his chair. “Yes, Pappy, what’s the story?”

  Pappy, with a great smile, recounted his dream of a great mountain, the object, and the quest to find another mountain. Peter could only groan. But while the joy of his grandfather transcended and buoyed his spirit, Peter thought to himself, “It’s time to settle down.”

  A few weeks of blissful sleep later, Peter’s beloved grandfather passed away during his afternoon nap, smiling like a cherub, peaceful and happy. Peter had fulfilled his pappy’s quest.

  Now, as the hot rod hearse comes to a screeching halt at the cemetery, Michaela sighs with relief, exiting the vehicle with haste to stand motionless on terra firma. Peter, in his state of joy, scans around. He spots his mother, Michaela, and Mei exiting their cars and the good doctor, Beverly waiting at the open grave with a Catholic priest in full regalia. Pappy was an atheist and didn’t want a service at his funeral, but Peter’s mother absolutely insisted on a Catholic service. After much debate, Peter consented, but only if the service was given by his new lifelong friend, Jean-Paul.

  But Peter continues to search the area, and he cannot find her. His joy dissipates into his first tingling of grief. For it has been seven weeks since he last saw her as she pulled him to safety in the waters off Çayeli. He tried to get messages through to her. But there were no answers, only the note she left for him in Rome, which he has carried in his pocket every day since. Only through Jean-Paul did she confirm she would do her best to come to Peter’s grandfather’s funeral. Peter sadly guesses she couldn’t make it work. Even for him.

  Standing with his mother and sister, Peter listens to Father Jean-Paul conducting the Catholic rites. A priest once again, he came in his black cassock with a white surplice and black-and-gold cope. So much different from the bulletproof vest and black commando pants in their final showdown with Alexander.

  Jean-Paul nears the end of the service, saying, “May the love of God and the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ console you and gently wipe every tear from your eyes.”

  Peter’s mother is the most vocal in response. “Amen.”

  Jean-Paul continues, making the sign of the cross. “May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  And while he speaks of the Trinity, ironically a black government SUV arrives. Three men dressed in black step out. Since that afternoon on the pier, Peter now recognizes when someone is packing a weapon, and all three of them are carrying. And much to Peter’s delight, one tall, dark woman emerges, adorned in a loose-fitting opaque black ankle-length abaya with a high neck. Around her head is wrapped Mei’s black silk scarf with the red-and-gold embroidery. He glances at her feet. Mei’s gift to her, the flat black bow tie suede ankle-wrap sandals. Peter so wants to run over and hug her, kiss her, tell her how much he has missed her, and how much he truly loves her. But the ever-vigilant Samantha grabs his hand tightly, holding him back.

  Jean-Paul, also peeking over at Zara, smiles as he speaks again of the Trinity in concluding the rites. “May the love of God and the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ bless and console us and gently wipe every tear from our eyes: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  Samantha, Michaela, and Mei provide their final “Amen.” Seemingly, Zara mouths the same.

  Jean-Paul looks to the sky and concludes: “Niklas Peter Gollinger, may you go in the peace of Christ.”

  Samantha, Michaela, Mei, and even Zara all give a final “Thanks be to God.”

  After final words from the Gollinger family, Father Jean-Paul waves Zara over and asks if she has any words she would like to say. She thanks Jean-Paul and offers the following from her, and her mother’s, and her grandfather’s favorite poet, Jalāl ad-Dīn Rūmī:

  You mustn’t be afraid of death.

  You’re a deathless soul.

  You can’t be kept in a dark grave.
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  You’re filled with God’s glow.

  Be happy with your beloved.

  You can’t find any better.

  The world will shimmer

  Because of the diamond you hold.

  When your heart is immersed

  In this blissful love

  You can easily endure

  Any bitter face around

  In the absence of malice.

  Her soft, dark eyes gaze into Peter’s as she finishes the poem.

  There is nothing but happiness and good times.

  Don’t dwell in sorrow, my friend.

  Finally, she adds, “I have learned with you, Peter, and you, Jean-Paul, that as people, we are more similar than different. That our beliefs are more similar than different. And that to achieve the peace we all seek, we need tolerance. And the willingness to know and accept each other for who we are.

  “And most important, I have learned with you, there is one voice. Only one voice. Be that the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, Elohim, Parvardigar, Krishna, Xuda, or Allah, or Xwedê, only one voice. And I am thankful to have learned from you, Peter, the voice of Niklas Peter Gollinger. His voice that spread the word to you, Peter, of a quest now concluded, which led to the friendship of our families. For this, I thank you, Niklas Gollinger. Amin.”

  Samantha’s eyes well up in tears and she goes and hugs this strange woman of wise words, giving her motherly kisses. “That was so beautiful. Thank you. Thank you. And bless you.” They hug, crying in each other’s arms.

  Holding Zara at arm’s length to get a better look at her, she remarks, “You must be Zara. We’re so happy you could come and join us. Father Sobiros has told us so much about you.” Her last comment is strategically placed, intimating her son’s reluctance to share his true feelings on the subject.

  Wanting to talk with Zara, Peter turns to address her as Mei tries to get his attention. But the good Doctor Beverly beats her to the man of the moment. “My condolences, Peter. Your grandfather was a fine man. He loved you so and talked about you every time I came to visit while you were gone.” She takes his hand into hers.

  Peter rubs her hands. “Thank you so much, Beverly. That means so much to me. Both for his words and, more importantly, your friendship in taking such good care of Pappy.”

  “It was my honor and my pleasure. By the way, your grandfather left some things for me to pass on to you. Maybe we can do that later this week? Dinner at my place? I have a draft outline for my new book,” says the good doctor.

  As Beverly walks away, Mei quickly comes back to see her sweet savior Peter. Once again with no makeup, no earrings, she is a little fuller than he last saw her, just a tad, dressed in a simple black ankle-length dress with purple accents and embroidery, covered by an elegant black silk lace shawl, black silk stockings, and black flats, also with purple accents, matching her Mini Cooper. And she matches Michaela’s outfit, which differs only in having light blue accents and embroidery. She too clasps his hands and says, “And how is my sweet, silly Peter doing?”

  Peter leans in and lightly kisses her lips. “I owe so much to you, Mei. Without you, I couldn’t have navigated what faced me. You were so right about Alexander.”

  Mei smiles at the mention of his name. “Speaking of Alexander, you are not on his list of most favored people at this moment. You are a very clever man, Mr. Peter Banana Slug. No one has ever denied him what he wanted and lived.” She kisses him back lightly on his lips. “Your sister, Michaela, she is so much like you. Funny and charming. She makes me laugh like you made me laugh. You two have brought such joy into my life. You make me feel like family.”

  Peter smiles at her, gazing into her simply beautiful eyes. “And I can’t thank you enough for making sure Michaela, my mother, and Pappy were all safe while we were being hunted down by those assassins. And Michaela is ecstatic she’s been able to room with you in Shanghai and have access to all your designer contacts. That’s so nice of you.”

  Mei smiles right back at Peter with that special shining smile of hers. “It is the least I can do for my favorite banana slug man.” She purses her lips and glances down and then back into his eyes. “Remember what we said when we parted in Luxembourg?”

  Peter rubs her hands in his and replies, “Someday maybe we could go out? A date?”

  She ruffles his hair affectionately. “My, you still are rash. I think you have found the answer to who is that dark-haired woman. The one Michaela said she guided you to. The one who you saw in the fog of your mornings.” She glances over to Zara.

  Mei tilts her head, gazing into his eyes, and says, “And the rest? I’m there for your sister helping her in Shanghai. She’s already raising eyebrows at the Shanghai-Paris Fashion Institute with her innovative designs. Who knows, maybe she’ll be designing Rhonda’s wardrobe soon.”

  She kisses him on his adorable dimple and goes back to Michaela.

  Peter turns to Zara and thinks, What was that Kurdish proverb she said? What the heart thinks, the mouth speaks.

  Zara, desperately trying to appear as if she was not focused on Peter and Mei, says to Jean-Paul, “It was quite an honor that the Holy Pontiff appointed you to head the Catholic relief mission in Turkey. That electromagnetic pulse sent all our lands back to the Neolithic Ages. Little did we know how dependent we were on such fragile microcircuits.”

  “And your role in helping the Anatolian Kurdish State come to the negotiation table with Turkey about terms of reunification is equally of honor,” responds the good Father.

  “You honor me too much,” says the humbled Kurdish woman. “As much as it pains me to say so, most of the credit should be given to Mr. Murometz, who, as always, pulled his puppet strings among many governments to nicely or not so nicely persuade them to the negotiation table. I only helped my new government understand the possibilities of working with Sasha’s agendas.”

  Clasping his hand, she says, “I do appreciate your arranging a private meeting with your pope. But why would such an important person want to spend time with me? I am clearly not Catholic, and I am sure he has many more pressing issues than a simple Kurdish woman.”

  The good Father methodically blinks and serenely says, “As I said to you in the hospital, this whole mission has always been about you. Not Peter. Not the object. But you. Alexander and I shared that goal together. Your newfound humility hides what you know so well. The object only served to unleash within you what you have always yearned for, what you strived for, what you have now, but only are starting to understand. Be that through Mei’s theory of dormant gene activation or through more simply the act of the divine. You were the true goal of the oral traditions. And now, you are changing in many profound ways. My agreement with His Eminence was to help you make this change, which meant finding your other half, bringing you two to the object, and most importantly helping you let Peter help you. And now His Eminence would like to meet you, honor the changes you are going through, and hear of your experiences with the voice.”

  And Peter arrives, compliments Jean-Paul on the service and on his new post in Ankara, and asks if he could have a moment alone with Zara. Jean-Paul nods of course and walks over to Samantha. Peter beholds Zara’s face, her scar still present, but somehow her beauty inside shines through.

  Peter faces Zara and takes her hands into his, an act that once had so much meaning between them. That first touch in the airplane. That first moment of peace, harmony, beauty, and bliss between them. He has missed her so much, in such profound ways. He can only hope she feels the same way too.

  With dilated eyes that emanate innocence, Peter says, “Zara, I am so, so grateful, so delighted, so happy you came. It means so much to me.”

  Head tilted up, he leans in to kiss her, but she turns her head. And that feeling he has fought so hard to suppress wells up. That growing tinge of grief. That empty sadness of the loss of a loved one. That hint of separation angst. The one he thought he had lost as they dived off that pier as he tried to save her. The one
he thought he had lost when she left him that note with the fragment in Rome. The one who stands in front of him is about to tell him she is lost to him. Forever.

  In great despondence, he puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out her note to show to her. She looks at it and says, “It is all true.” And she looks away.

  He touches her cheeks. And she lets him. He says, “And what is most true of what you wrote, I still loved you no matter who you really are. I still love you now. And you do not have to explain to me who you are or what you have done.”

  She touches his cheeks back, holding them with both hands, shaking as he has never seen before. “And you were not certain whether everything Alexander said was true or not. And yet, you still saved me. You could not kill me no matter what he said or what I said. You found your own unique silly Little Boy way to save us all. How could one not love you back for that? I have asked myself this question for many weeks.”

  She places her fingers on his chest and rubs lightly across the fabric of his shirt. “Alexander pushed every button he could find on you. And I thought you were going to give in until you placed your hands together in prayer.”

  Putting her finger under his chin, she lifts his head so he can peer into her dark and still piercing eyes. “He and I are cut from the same cloth, the same bread, the same apple. I pushed your buttons the same way he did. I am no better than he in that regard. What he told you, though, is the biased interpretation a patriarch puts on a woman’s actions. The same acts as I would tell you a matriarch would interpret differently. For when a woman chooses celibacy, what is she withholding from others? Did the good Sister Magali withhold from Jean-Paul? I think not. How she chose to live was her choice, as the way I have lived has been my choice. You have to decide which version you wish to believe. Which version you want to remember me by.”