by Glenn Kleier
“What did you do?”
“Quite frankly, I felt his state of mind unstable, and rather than provoke him further, I agreed to do as he asked.”
“Did that placate him?”
“He insisted on sitting outside my office while I read the document in its entirety.”
The pontiff's eyes widened and he scratched his chin. “And what was the content of his report?”
Di Concerci leaned back in his chair, his lips compressed, as if hesitant to continue further.
“Speak, Antonio.”
The prefect placed his attaché case on the corner of the pontiff's desk, flipped open the locks and removed a multipage document.
“Holiness, I don't know how else to describe this.” He laid the papers next to his attaché case. “These are the ravings of a delusional fanatic. Litti has gone mad. He's renounced the Church. He recognizes this Jeza woman as the New Messiah and proclaims that our destruction is imminent.”
Nicholas sank back in his chair, stunned. “Alphonse, a millenarian?”
“He demands that the Church recognize Jeza as the New Messiah and that we support her message and mission—assuming anyone can determine precisely what her message or mission might be. And Litti demands that this report be included in the inquirendum.”
The pope remained slumped in his chair, his chin cupped in his hand, his eyes far away. Almost to himself he said in a voice filled with reminiscence, “This is not Alphonse, you know. I remember so well, many years ago, when I first arrived here as a young, naive graduate from the Pontifical Theological Academy. Alphonse was one of my first friends. He was very carefree and easygoing. Not at all like he is now. I fear for him. I wonder if it could be a stage of early senility.”
Then to di Concerci he added, “I want Alphonse to see a physician immediately. A complete check-up. Will you see to this, Tony?”
“Yes, Holy Father, right away. But what about his report?”
Nicholas exhaled. “Leave it with me. But I can tell you, it will not appear in the inquirendum.”
After di Concerci had left, Nicholas let his troubled thoughts wander for a while until they finally returned to Alphonse Litti's poor misguided effort, lying in forty-odd pages on the edge of the pope's antique desk. In the very spot where once lay the marriage annulment petition from Henry VIII and the manifesto of Martin Luther's Ninety-five Theses.
The pontiff reached over, gathered up the papers, and placed them in a plain envelope he marked “A. Litti.” From his waist chain, he retrieved a large gold key and unlocked the side vault of his desk. Before depositing the envelope inside, the pope hesitated, recognizing within the vault a faded brown-leather portfolio. Then, hurriedly, he tossed in A. Litti's report and shut the door.
57
WNN regional headquarters, Cairo, Egypt 8:30 A.M., Monday, February 14, 2000
Over the weekend there was yet another Jeza sighting by the WNN crews. This proved to be a particularly revealing one. Cissy, who had already reviewed the video Sunday afternoon with Bollinger and Sullivan, had the tape in hand at an editing bay, awaiting Feldman's and Hunter's arrival for preview and development of the day's newscasts.
Hunter slid into the editing room well ahead of Feldman, and braked hard when he spied Cissy sitting cross-legged on the edge of the table. This was the first time the two had been completely alone together since the night of the millennial earthquake. It was too late for Hunter to duck back out again without looking conspicuous and cowardly.
“Hey, Ciss,” he started, “what's happenin’? I hear we got some more hot video footage—”
“I'm still pissed off at you, Hunter!” she hissed, crossing her arms to match her legs.
“Now what for?”
“What for? For punching my date's lights out, that's what for!”
“Your date? Hell, that was no date, Cissy, that was IDF. You know, the good folks who threw Arnie in jail?”
“Schlomo wasn't threatening me, he took me out to dinner, for chrissakes!”
“Schlomo?” he mocked. “I've got news for you. If you hadn't left with us, in a few more minutes ol’ Schlomo and his pals woulda been tossin’ your freckled butt in the brig! You oughta be thanking me.”
“I don't need you to look out for me, thank you.”
“Look Cissy, I know you're still cranked at me over this Erin thing—”
“What!” she exploded, popping off the table and stomping the ground in a fit. “You big, contemptuous, pompous ass!”
Feldman had arrived outside the door, but he came to an abrupt halt at the sound of elevated voices. He was used to the two of them bickering, but this went well beyond the pale. Unfortunately, Feldman needed access to the room to view the new Jeza tape before he met with Sullivan and Bollinger. He looked at his watch, tapped his toes as the altercation intensified, then retreated back down the hallway a safer distance.
“So,” Hunter attempted a defense, “just because I show you a little attention after the earthquake. I mean, nothing happened between us!”
“Nothing happened!” She was livid. “You hold me tight in your arms, you kiss my face and say all these sweet things to me. You talk about wanting to spend the night with me. And you were just being a good Boy Scout right? You bastard!
“And hardly an hour or two after you drop me off,” she ranted on, “along comes that Babylonian Bimbo and you go drooling after her like a bull in rut! You're disgusting!”
Feldman found situations such as these extremely distressing. They revived difficult memories of his failed attempts to quell arguments between his parents. Nevertheless, something had to be done, and once again Feldman felt responsible for refereeing two people he loved. He bit his lip, gathered his resolve and forced himself back down the hall toward the escalating volume. Anxious faces peered out at him from office doorways, offering silent support as Feldman passed by. He acknowledged them, grim-faced, and continued on.
Approaching the viewing room once again, he could hear Hunter protesting feebly, but Cissy's enraged voice towered over him.
“You think she's sexy? Sexy? What the hell do you think I am, Mother Teresa!” she screamed.
Feldman's jaw dropped open. Aghast, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and mouthed, “Hunter, you idiot!”
Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking and a squeal of alarm from Hunter. Feldman feared he'd delayed too long. He scurried around the corner into the room, hoping he was in time to prevent the impending manslaughter. Hunter, cringing in a corner, greeted Feldman with a look of pleading desperation, coffee from a shattered pitcher dripping down the wall behind him. Cissy stood over the imperiled cameraman, the latest Jeza videotape held high and threatening in her hand.
“You goddamn son of a bitch!” Cissy screeched.
Feldman rushed over and wrapped the frenzied woman in his arms, rescuing both Hunter and the precious videotape. The mortified cameraman saw his chance and darted around Cissy like the all-state linebacker he once was, out of the office, down the hall, not to be seen for the rest of the day.
Restraining the enraged, sobbing woman in his arms, Feldman comforted her until she regained some composure. Looking up at him, her mascara running down her flushed, freckled cheeks, her bottom lip thrust out and quivering, she blubbered, “I don't know why I love that lousy bastard, I just do, and I can't help it. I hate myself!”
Feldman felt for Cissy, who'd been a good friend through some amazing times, but he'd rather have been a thousand miles away at this moment. He saw in her the anguished face of his mother, that universal, contorted expression forged by failing love.
“Breck doesn't mean to be so insensitive, Cissy. He's just a clumsy, rough old jock who never learned better. In his heart, I know he thinks the world of you. It was pretty obvious from the way he decked that soldier the other night. But maybe you two just aren't meant to be, you know?”
She grimaced in pain and despair, shuddered through another paroxysm, then finally composed h
erself again. “Yeah, I know, I know. It's just going to take me a little time, that's all. I'll deal with it.”
“I know you will, Ciss. Come on now, let me drive you home. You take the rest of the day off and things will look a whole lot better tomorrow. You'll see.”
“No,” she said, “you've got a meeting with Sullivan. I'm okay now, really. I'm going to step into the ladies’ room for a minute and then I'll drive myself home. You go on. I'm okay. Really.”
Feldman was unconvinced, and wouldn't leave until he could coax a smile from her. Laughing and crying at the same time, she finally delivered.
“Go on, get out of here,” he commanded. “I'll call you later to check up, okay?”
“Thanks, Jon,” she said in a calmer voice. “You've always been good to me.” She grabbed his hands in hers, stood on tiptoes, kissed Feldman's cheek, and left.
Taking a moment to collect himself, Feldman headed to the coffee machine, signaling an all-clear to the alarmed and concerned along the way. As he passed through the atrium, he paused long enough to watch Cissy hustling out to her car. She drove off quickly, but not recklessly, he noticed with relief.
Settling in with his filled coffee mug at the editing bay, Feldman called Sullivan to let him know he was ready for their meeting.
“Quite a row, eh what?” Sullivan understated. “She'll be all right, I trust?”
“I think so, Nigel,” Feldman surmised. “Cissy's pretty tough. She just needs some time to regroup. I'll check in on her later and make sure.”
“I say, I had no idea there was a difficulty there. I mean they banter back and forth so, but I never thought there was any animosity behind it. Whatever time she needs, of course. And what about Breck?”
Feldman let out with a short, ironic laugh. “Hell, he's probably off playing video games somewhere, totally forgotten it all by now. Breck's not real deep about things like this, I'm afraid.”
“Very well. And you?”
“I'm fine, Nigel. How about we get rolling on this new video?”
As the others arrived, Feldman furtively observed Erin Cross to see if he could detect any reactions to the morning's events, but she seemed totally indifferent to the situation.
Before they began, Bollinger gave Feldman the background on the tape they were about to view. “This footage was taken Saturday morning, Jon, downtown at the Al-Azhar University campus. We got a call about nine-thirty that Jeza was on the grounds near the Student Union Center. By the time we got there, a professor had come across her and invited her into an auditorium to address a class.
“Our crew was able to squeeze in and set up in the back of the hall while she was preoccupied answering questions. You're going to find this interesting. It's one of her lengthier exchanges ever.”
The video opened with Jeza standing behind an elevated podium at the bottom of a large, darkened, bowl-shaped auditorium. The Messiah was dressed in a long, simple, white cotton robe, trimmed in a red and purple band on the sleeves and hem. Illuminated in soft overhead lights, speaking comfortably into the microphone in front of her, she held the audience in rapt attention.
The class professor, a swarthy, animated bearded man with dark, liquid eyes and a turban, was the only other person on the stage with the Messiah. He appeared to be moderating the symposium, selecting the questioners from the audience.
The videotape picked up on a question posed by a tall, thin, middle-aged clergyman in a dark cassock. “Jeza, pardon me,” he said in a polite tone, “but your teachings seem to contradict many tenets of the Holy Bible. Are you above the Bible?”
“Where I am,” she responded in that commanding, yet soft, soothing voice of hers, “is by the hand and will of God. I bring you His Word as His begotten messenger.”
After each of her comments, the hall was abuzz with low-volume conversation, which quickly and respectfully abated with the next question asked.
“Jeza?” A black male student in a colorfully embroidered robe was recognized by the class professor. “Your teachings would seem to follow Christian philosophy in that you have proclaimed yourself the Sister of Jesus Christ and the Daughter of God. Are you then God, and should you be worshiped?”
“None should be worshiped but God the Father,” she responded.
“Are you superior to Jesus?” he questioned.
“Is ice superior to water?” she answered matter-of-factly, without the slightest edge to her voice. “Both are the same elements in different form, for different seasons.”
The class professor now posed a question of his own. “Jeza,” he asked, “are you proclaiming a new religion, or are you an adherent of a current theology?”
“I bring you insight into the will of God,” she responded. “The New Light is the culmination of all religions. It is the natural goal to which all religions must aspire.”
“Then to what religion should we belong?” a young man in a bright yellow turban asked.
“The Lord will not judge you by your religion,” she answered. “Nor does He favor one religion over another, nor one person over the next. Each man, woman, child will be judged only by how far that individual advances toward the fulfillment of personal perfection in the New Light.”
A leather-skinned, angry-looking man in Arabic garb sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing with emotion. “But if you are the sister of Jesus, you are a Jew. Are you then not partial to the Jew over the Arab? What have you to say to the freedom fighter who has lost his homeland to the Jews!”
“I say this to you,” she responded solemnly, her face growing dark. “The embittered divisions between Arab and Jew are an abiding source of anguish to God! As I am the Almighty's daughter, so also am I sister to Muhammad. Know you not that both Arab and Jew arise from the same root? That you share the same heritage in the patriarch, Abraham? The same deity whose name is both Allah and Yahweh? You are brothers in the eyes of God unlike no other peoples on the face of the earth, yet you hate and you shed one another's blood as mortal enemies!
“To you who pursue violence to regain your homeland, know this: your issues are worthy, but you yourselves are not! The acts of terrorism that you bring are abhorrent in the eyes of God. I say to you, let the persecution of the Jews—and of the Palestinians, and of all religions and peoples—let it all end now, forevermore. Until you forswear such actions of violence, God will turn His face from you. Until you and your brother Jews can come together with love and a true desire for reconciliation and unity, neither will know a peaceful homeland!”
The hall was stock-still. Taken aback, the befuddled Arab slowly resumed his seat.
After a period of profound silence, a young female student tentatively raised her hand. “Lady Messiah, are you here to found a new religion?”
“The New Light is not a religion, nor is it a list of rituals. The New Light is the understanding by which each may strive toward God's will for mankind.”
The professor then asked, “What is God's will for mankind? And what exactly is the New Light?”
“All is being revealed according to God's plan,” she replied. “You must watch and you must listen.”
A young black man, raising his hand animatedly from far back in the audience, was called on and created a stir when he pleaded, “Messiah, my mother is very ill. I beg you, please cure her!”
The professor immediately rushed to the center of the stage and warned, pointedly, that any further attempts to seek interventions or personal favors from the Messiah would result in the removal of that individual from the auditorium. He then promptly called on another questioner. However, in an unsubstantiated report issued a few days later, a Cairo paper claimed that the young man's mother recovered that same hour, completely and inexplicably, from a purported terminal illness.
Another female student posed a question which brought about a rift of laughter. “Messiah, is God male or female?”
Jeza showed no undue reaction. “God is both male and female,” she said straightforwardly. “And mankind
is separated from God by its sexes.”
The same student followed up her question. “You refer to. God as ‘He’ and to hunanity as ‘man,’ or ‘mankind.’ Isn't that preferential and sexist? Particularly since you yourself are female?”
There were a few whistles and catcalls in the audience. But the professor stood with a stern face and the auditorium fell immediately silent.
Jeza did not hesitate with her response. “It may be more correct to identify God as ‘It,’ and mankind as simply ‘humanity.’ But this is not the custom, and to depart from the traditional so late in the hour is more academic than purposeful. For you to dwell on these terms as divisive is to distract yourself from your purpose, which is unity. Nevertheless, if you wish to understand scripture as God intended it, it is wise to go back and remove the inequity, as I will make clearer to you in days to come.”
“You say ‘late in the hour,’ Messiah,” the professor noted with a catch in his voice. “Are you foretelling the end of the world?”
There was a palpable suspension of breath in the audience.
Jeza herself grew solemn and pensive. “A great change is coming,” she slowly answered “It will mark both the end and the beginning. You must be vigilant and you will come to understand God's plan.”
This caused quite a stir in the assembly and the professor had to stand again to restore order. He selected another individual.
“By what rules shall we live?” the student asked. “By the Ten Commandments? The Talmud? The secular laws of our nation?”
“All of these and none of these,” she responded enigmatically. “I say to you that through the ages, God's word has been revealed many times to man. It is the same word, spoken by many tongues, written by many hands. To some it is the Bible. To others, the Koran. To still others, the Torah. And there exist many more forms.