“Yeah, but the president’s daughter?”
“It was Secretary Milner’s idea.” Decker’s expression requested an explanation. “Secretary Milner was here on some business shortly after I became director-general of FAO. He and the president are old friends. I just happened to mention to him in passing that I needed to find an administrative assistant.”
“I don’t suppose it’s hurt your relationship with the Italian government any,” Decker said.
“No, things have been very cordial.”
Christopher’s office was spacious and luxuriously decorated and furnished. On the walls were pictures of Christopher with several members of the United Nations Security Council; numerous Italian government officials including the Italian prime minister, the Italian ambassador to the UN, and the Italian president; and with leaders of the Roman Catholic Church, including three cardinals. Most prominent in the room were two pictures displayed side by side, one of Christopher with Secretary-General Jon Hansen, and the other of Christopher with Robert Milner and the Pope. “You’ve been a very busy boy,” Decker commented as he scanned the photos.
“To tell you the truth, most of this has been Secretary Milner’s doing. He’s been here four or five times a year since I’ve been director-general,” Christopher said. Milner, now ninety, seemingly had not aged a day since the transfusion of Christopher’s blood eight years before. If anything, he seemed far younger. “I had no idea Secretary Milner had so much business in Italy.”
“Hmm, neither did I,” Decker responded. Decker was certain that Milner’s frequent trips were not a coincidence. He was obviously doing everything he could to advance Christopher’s position with those in power in Italy. It was not that Decker objected in any way. Still, there was a mystery here. He didn’t have long to think about it, though. His eye was caught by a familiar face in another picture of Christopher with a very distinguished man in front of the Coliseum. “When was David Bragford here?” Decker asked.
“Oh, that was last summer. He was here with Secretary Milner for a meeting of world bankers.” At that moment Maria announced Jack Redmond’s arrival.
“All hail the Prince of Rome,” Redmond said, addressing Christopher and bowing in mock obeisance as he came in.
Decker had no idea what had prompted Jack’s greeting but assumed it to be a joke; the look of mild annoyance on Christopher’s face indicated there was more to it than that. “Okay, I’ll bite,” Decker said. “What’s going on? What’s this ‘Prince of Rome’ stuff?”
“Haven’t you seen last week’s issue of Epoca?” Jack asked Decker, referring to the Italian magazine that is the equivalent of Time or Newsweek.
“No,” Decker answered, looking back and forth from Jack to Christopher and hoping for an explanation.
“Here,” Jack said, as he opened his briefcase and handed the Italian magazine to Decker. On the cover was a very complimentary picture of Christopher with the words “Christopher Goodman, Il Trentenne, Principe di Roma” boldly displayed underneath.
Decker examined the photo for a moment and then asked for a translation of the caption. Christopher just sat silently, looking a little embarrassed, as Jack answered. “It says, ‘Christopher Goodman, the Thirty-Year-Old Prince of Rome.’”
Decker was proud enough to burst. He couldn’t read a word of Italian, but he quickly flipped through the magazine trying to find the accompanying article. “Will somebody please tell me what this is all about?” he asked impatiently.
“It seems our boy Christopher has made quite a name for himself around these parts.” Jack’s voice was laden with an exaggerated Cajun accent—something he did whenever he wanted to do a little friendly ribbing.
“It’s nothing,” Christopher protested. “The editor of the magazine came up with that to insult the priministro della republica. The prime minister,” he added in translation. “They’ve had a running battle for months. Apparently the people at Epoca thought it would serve their purposes to build me up while tearing down the priministro. The article right after the one about me calls the priministro a useless, ineffective bore.”
Decker flipped to the article about the prime minister and found a most unflattering picture of the man. He wondered if the photo had been altered to make him look so bad.
“Methinks the prince doth protest too much,” Jack said with a grin, intentionally misquoting Hamlet. 37
“I just think the whole thing is a little silly. I called the prime minister as soon as I saw the article and let him know I had no idea they were going to use the story as they did. Fortunately, we’ve had the opportunity to establish a very affable relationship over the past several years. He took the whole thing very well. Now, could we please get some work done?”
“Okay, okay,” Jack said, still joking, “I’ll behave.”
“Wait a second,” interrupted Decker. “I want a copy of this and an English translation.”
“You guys make it awfully hard to be modest,” Christopher protested.
“Listen,” said Jack Redmond, donning his political advisor’s hat, “you can be very proud of that article. It’s not often a UN official other than Hansen gets that type of recognition in the press. I mean, after all—and not to belittle your job—you are just a bureaucrat. Normally that means you do your job behind the scenes and no one ever notices, except possibly other bureaucrats. From what I saw in that magazine you’ve done an outstanding job, not only as a bureaucrat but as a representative of the United Nations to the people of Italy. You keep playing your cards right and there’ll be no stopping you.”
Christopher accepted the compliment graciously. Decker was too busy smiling to add anything.
“Oh, and speaking of the people of Italy,” Jack continued, “the article says you’re an Italian citizen. Whose idea was that?”
Decker was sure he knew the answer. “Secretary Milner’s,” Christopher answered. “He recommended it back when I first took over FAO. He thought it would be popular with the Italian people. With the liberalization of citizenship requirements over the past ten years, it only required a ninety-day residency before I could apply. I’ve been an Italian citizen for nearly five years now. It’s really just a symbolic thing.”
Jack Redmond nodded approvingly. “Like I said, there’ll be no stopping you.”
“Now, can we please get started on this?” Christopher pleaded.
“Not quite so fast. There’s one other thing in the article Decker might find interesting.” Christopher sat down, folded his hands, and looked up at the ceiling. It was useless to try to stop Jack when he was on a roll. “According to the article, you and the Italian President’s daughter are quite an item. Rumors are that marriage may be in your future.”
“What?” Decker said in surprise. “You and Maria?”
“No!” Christopher answered quickly. “They’re talking about his oldest daughter, Tina.”
“Wait a second,” Jack interrupted, “who’s Maria?”
“Nobody!” Christopher blurted before Decker could answer and thereby give Jack even more to speculate about. “Look, there’s nothing to that business. Tina and I are just friends. I needed a date for a few political functions, and so we went together. That’s all there is to it.”
It took a while longer, but the subject finally got around to agricultural quotas. The meeting went on well into the evening and had to be continued on the flight to Pakistan, where they were to meet with Secretary-General Hansen and his party.
20
Through a Glass Darkly
Shiwi, Pakistan
A DARK FIGURE MOVED QUICKLY along the dry river bed, checking each low-lying area for any sign of water. If he did not find it soon, death would surely overtake him as it had all the others. Up ahead, a tree, still green despite the brown that surrounded it, gave shade to the end of his search: a small pool of water. It was there; he knew it was. He could smell it. Running to it, he put his face down to the water and drank until he was satisfied. He would stay
here until the water was gone or hunger drove him on. It was possible that the water might draw some small animal he could eat, but he couldn’t wait for food to come to him. He would have to scout out the area and hope for the best.
It was shortly after dawn, but the sun already beat down on the dry plain as he emerged from the river bed and peered cautiously through the dry thicket. A motionless form lay about thirty yards away. The week without food and the days without water had dulled his senses or he surely would have noticed it earlier, so close to him. He paused only a moment to examine the area for danger; he was too hungry to expend much caution. As he approached the figure, it became apparent it was dead. There were two more smaller ones lying nearby.
In the distance, he heard a roar that sounded like a large herd of hoofed animals. It was a long way away but it seemed to be coming toward him. Fear grew as the sound drew near more swiftly than he could imagine possible. Quickly he took hold of a leg and tried to drag his meal to the river bed, but his strength was not up to the task. With insane determination born of unbearable hunger he decided to make his stand. Soon the sound was almost upon him and it became clear that it was coming, not from a herd of any sort, but from a single huge bird like none he had ever seen before.
Overhead, the secretary-general’s helicopter slowly approached the famine relief camp, as those on board got a close look at the surrounding conditions. The drought had been devastating. For twenty miles the helicopter had followed a dry river bed, but they saw no more than a few pools of water. Just below, about two miles from the relief camp near one of the pools, they spotted a lone emaciated wild dog looking up at them. It stood over the carcass of a young woman who had died of starvation or thirst before reaching the camp. Nearby lay the bodies of her two small children.
The stark evidence of famine and drought that the secretary-general’s party now saw firsthand in Pakistan was mirrored by similar devastation in northern India, where wheat rust had severely reduced the annual harvest. In southern India, tropical storms during the monsoon season had driven seawater into many of the already flooded areas to form brackish water, making the land salty and unarable. The latter was a fairly common occurrence in India, and all that could be done was to try to grow whatever they could and wait for subsequent monsoons to leach the salt from the land over the next few years.
The helicopter landed in an open area outside the camp, creating a huge dust cloud that blew into the faces of those waiting. Along with the twenty or so cameramen and reporters, the relief camp’s director, Dr. Fred Bloomer, waited for the blades to stop before approaching to welcome the secretary-general and his party. Christopher, the only one on board who knew Dr. Bloomer, made the introductions.
“I’m anxious to get started,” Hansen said as he shook Bloomer’s hand.
“I fear you’ll find conditions worse than you imagined, Mr. Secretary-General,” Dr. Bloomer said. “We’ve had nearly a thousand new arrivals in the last four days. We’re just not set up to handle this many people. We’ve had to severely reduce rations.”
To feed the people in the camp, he explained, the kitchen operated with a full contingent on a fourteen-hour shift throughout the daylight hours. During the night, a skeleton crew was on hand for any who had just reached the camp—a single hour in some cases could make the difference between life and death. Dr. Bloomer’s goal was to provide two meals a day for everyone in the camp.
The official purpose of this visit was fact finding, but what Hansen really hoped to accomplish was to build support for the distribution of agricultural resources. He had specific reasons for inviting each of those who accompanied him on this trip. Ambassador Khalid Haider from Pakistan was there because it was his country. The Indian ambassador had been invited because of similar problems in his country and because of the concern that the refugees from Pakistan might begin to spill over into India.
The members from North America and Europe had been asked to come along because it was their regions that Hansen’s plan would ask to give the most for the food distribution effort. Ambassador Howell of Canada, who represented North America on the Security Council, had been ill for several months and was expected to resign soon. In his place was Ambassador Walter Bishop from the United States, the alternate from North America, who hoped to replace the Canadian ambassador as primary. Aware of this likelihood, Hansen wanted to take the opportunity to get to know the American better and win his support for the plan. Ambassador Heineman from Germany, who represented Europe on the Security Council, really didn’t need to be convinced about the need for food redistribution, but the people of his region did. At Decker’s recommendation Hansen had invited Heineman to ensure coverage of the trip by the European press. It was an effective way of making sure the people of Europe learned of the urgency and magnitude of the need.
The team started with a tour of the camp and what was left of the surrounding villages. In the afternoon Christopher briefed the ambassadors on the findings from a study by the Food and Agriculture Organization on projections for future years. Later in the afternoon, in what was mainly a photo opportunity, the team members worked in the serving line for the evening meal. They spent the night at the camp under nearly the same conditions as the camp’s inhabitants.
The next morning the secretary-general and the ambassadors planned to fly by helicopter back to Lahore, Pakistan, near the Indian border, while Decker and Christopher remained at the camp to represent Hansen to a second team from the UN who would be arriving in the late afternoon.
Tel Aviv, Israel
Rabbi Saul Cohen finished his morning prayers and rose to his feet to answer the knock at the door of his study. Benjamin Cohen, the rabbi’s seventeen-year-old son and only living relative since the Disaster took his four older children and wife, stood outside, nervously shifting from side to side. He knew not to disturb his father’s prayer time without good cause, and he did not relish comparing his own evaluation of what constituted a ‘good cause’ with that of his father. Nevertheless, he relished even less the possibility of angering the man who waited in the sitting room.
The man—guest hardly seemed like the right word—had arrived without appointment. Benjamin had opened the front door to let him in but then backed away, sensing instinctively that there was something very unusual about this visit, if not about the man himself. As the man closed the door behind him, it seemed to Benjamin that the sitting room grew strangely crowded. He was only too glad to leave the room to retrieve his father and was halfway to his father’s office before he realized he had not asked the man his name. Like it or not, he would have to go back and ask.
Peering around the corner of the doorway, Benjamin’s eyes met those of the visitor. He wanted to look away, but he saw something there that held him. He could see clearly now what so unsettled him about this man. Benjamin had been trained to discern wisdom in a man’s face. He had been taught that wisdom came with age, but the wisdom in this man’s eyes was unnatural for a man no older than this. It would be unnatural for a man of any age.
He asked the man his name. The answer only added to Benjamin’s disquiet, but he felt it unadvisable to probe further.
Ordinarily Saul Cohen’s morning prayers lasted at least an hour, but for some reason this morning he stopped after only thirty minutes. When he heard the knock on his study door at that very moment, it seemed to him a confirmation. He did not know what news Benjamin brought, but he was sure it was important or the boy would not have interrupted him. Cohen opened the door.
“What is it?” he asked, with no sign of the consternation Benjamin had expected.
“There’s a man here to see you, Father.”
Cohen waited for more information, but Benjamin was not forthcoming. “So what is this man’s name?” Cohen asked finally.
“He didn’t say,” Benjamin responded in a muffled voice.
“Well, did you ask him?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And, what did he say?”
> Benjamin wasn’t sure how this was going to sound. It seemed very authoritative when the man in the sitting room said it, but coming from his own lips, Benjamin thought it might sound a little dumb. Still, he had to say something: his father was waiting. “He said to tell you that he is ‘he who has heard the voices of the seven thunders.’”
Cohen did not respond but the look on his face registered recognition. Finally he managed a nod and Benjamin went back to the sitting room to retrieve the man.
Saul Cohen closed the door and mechanically began to straighten his desk. A few seconds later, he heard footsteps coming down the hall and watched as the doorknob began to rotate. Suddenly it seemed as though he had forgotten how to breathe. Benjamin pushed the door open, and Cohen, remembering his manners, managed to move around from behind his desk to meet the man. If this man was, indeed, who he claimed to be, then Cohen had no desire to insult him with bad etiquette. For a moment, the man stood in the doorway just looking at Cohen as if savoring the moment, and then finally he entered.
Cohen didn’t know how it could be possible for this man to be who he claimed, but in Cohen’s vocation he had learned that nothing was impossible. He had known since the Disaster that someday a prophet would come. But could this man really be who he claimed to be? It was almost more than Cohen could accept.
“Hello, Rabbi,” the man said cordially as he extended his hand. He was not at all what Cohen expected. He didn’t appear to be a day over sixty. Most disconcerting of all was the way he was dressed—in a modern, dark-gray business suit with a red tie. Somehow, as silly as it seemed, Cohen had expected the man to be wearing sandals and a long robe, tied at the waist with a rope. Yet, despite his appearance and the impossibility of his claim, there was something about the man that made Cohen believe he was exactly who he said he was.
In His Image Page 33