Sacrifices of Joy

by Leslie J. Sherrod

“Another man was scheduled to be here tonight,” I spoke, out of breath, although I’d only walked about ten steps to the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Felokwakhe.”

  “Kisu.”

  “Yes, Kisu Felokwakhe. I’m sorry. He came by earlier today and said he was not going to be able to come tonight. We were pretty bummed about it, but Dr. Perez is renowned in his work.”

  “I . . . I flew all the way from the East Coast to see him, to see Kisu.” I could hear the heartbreak in my own voice.

  Skyye’s face dropped. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That is a long way to come to not get to see him.” She put a hand over her mouth, but then her smile returned. “Wait, I have an idea.”

  I stepped outside the café as she disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. The sun had just set over San Diego and the temperature was right around sixty. I ran my fingers over my arms where small goose bumps had begun forming. Hugging myself, standing alone, I had no idea what to do next but wait for more direction.

  My heart told me it was coming.

  “Here.” Skyye had rejoined me. A small scrap of paper was in her hand. “I talked to one of our cooks who’s been our contact with Mr. Felokwakhe. He said that Mr. Felokwakhe runs a small library in the basement of a cathedral in Old Town. The cathedral is one of the historic sites in that area, but not one of the more popular ones among tourists, so you may be able to gain an audience with him. I’ve called a cab for you and they already know to bill us for the ride. I feel so bad that you came this far just for our event.”

  “It’s okay. This trip was necessary. Thank you.”

  She passed me the paper in her hand. “Give the driver this address. It’s only about a ten- or fifteen-minute drive from here. Raul, our cook, thinks the library closes at nine, but my understanding is that Mr. Felokwakhe actually lives in a small room behind the library, so you should be able to catch him regardless. He cancelled his lecture tonight because he said he had to finish working on a time-sensitive major project. We rescheduled him for October.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “No problem. I’ve got to get back inside. Good luck.” She gave me another hug and then I was alone again.

  But not for long. A taxi pulled up alongside the curb and the passenger window rolled down.

  “You the lady who needs a ride to Old Town?” the driver, a man with a thick accent, called out from the window.

  “That’s me,” I replied, getting into the back seat after he clicked the doors open. I handed him the address.

  “Ah, that’s a little-known cathedral on the outer edges of Old Town. Not many people know about it, but mi bis-abuela, my mother’s mother, tells me my family attended there when it was just a little mission church years and years ago. In fact, they have a sculpture garden they keep adding to on one of the newer porticos. My cousin, Cesar, designed one of the sculptures. You should check it out on your visit.”

  The driver continued to ramble on about the history of the church, of Old Town, of other more famous cathedrals in the area, of San Diego, of California, but my mind could not keep up with his words. By the time we pulled up to the cathedral, I was numb mentally and physically. My fingers felt like heavy weights as I dug through my purse to give him a generous tip.

  “Did you want me to wait for you?” he called out of his window as I stood staring up at the edifice. Dull lights showed from just a few of the windows.

  “No,” I stated, giving no thought to my words or my plans as my heart raced inside of me.

  “Okay,” he shouted as he drove off.

  He had been right, I realized, as I looked around me. I was definitely somewhere on the outer edges of the area. In the darkness, I could see crowds in the distance milling about the shops, museums, restaurants, and other attractions of Old Town; but where I stood, there was nothing except landscaping, quiet, solemnity, reflection. I looked up again at the white adobe cathedral that towered over me and glistened in the moonlight. I noted that a pathway led to a side door marked VISITOR ENTRANCE and I headed toward it.

  The side door opened to a narrow staircase made of stone. I headed down it and entered a long, wide corridor. The air in here felt different. Cool. Moist.

  I was in the basement of the building.

  I noted a table next to the wall across from me. A series of brochures filled the surface, and I realized the church offered visitors a self-guided tour. At the moment, I was not interested in the history of the old building: its chapels, gardens, or service times.

  I only wanted to find the library.

  I picked up a pamphlet that served as a map of the cathedral, including an outline of the original mission building it had been built around. I noted the library’s location on the illustrated directory. The library appeared to be at the end of the basement, past several rooms and corridors, beyond entrances to hallways that led to the main sanctuary, gardens, and porticos.

  I began walking toward it. My footsteps sounded flat on the red stone tiled floor. Wrought-iron scones on the wall flooded the hallway with warm light.

  But the deeper I walked through the basement, the more the hallway narrowed, and the dimmer the lights became. As my footsteps became silent plods, I realized that the stone tiles had given way to an earthen floor. Obviously I was in the part of the church that had served as the original mission. The smell of clay and dirt filled my nostrils and the adobe walls looked slightly yellowed. I imagined the Spanish settlers from yesteryears walking the same narrow passage, which now began to turn and twist as it snaked around the small hillside that had been its foundation. No wonder few visitors ventured here. This place needed to be updated and renovated, starting with the lighting. Then again, I was in the basement. For all I knew, the main areas were probably pristine and inviting. It was hard to tell much about the building at night.

  As I passed several doorways and stairwells that led to portico entrances, I studied my map again, wondering if I was still on the right pathway to the library. However, after one last sharp turn in the hallway, I exhaled. Tiled floors welcomed my feet again and the narrow pathway opened up into a large, well-lit space. I was at the end of the basement.

  Across from me was a paneled wooden door atop three steps made of red brick. A gold nameplate was nailed to it with the word LIBRARY written on it in plain, black letters. I checked my watch. 8:33. It should still be open.

  My heart felt like a percussion band as I ascended the steps and put a hand on the door.

  It gave easily.

  I opened it fully to reveal a room about the size of my entire office suite. It was lit by two stained-glass chandeliers that swung overhead and the space was filled to the brim with books, scrolls, maps, and other curious implements. There were no windows, and much to my disappointment, no persons.

  Where is Kisu?

  My heart slowed its pace as I struggled to fight off a sapping disappointment that threatened to overtake me. I stepped fully in and shut the door of the library behind me. I began walking down the narrow, cramped aisles fashioned from a series of wooden tables. The smell of musty papers and rotting wood clogged up my nose. Books about the Bible, history, and theology cluttered every available space. I also noted thick hardcovers addressing politics, world history, philosophy, and sociology, and recalled that one of the brochures on the visitor’s table detailed the church’s current focus on social issues. One corner of the room had a handmade sign that hung overhead, which read RARE BOOKS.

  “Hello?” I called out and my voice seemed to fall flat on the leather-covered volumes and delicate, yellowed papers.

  There was one last door, in the corner of the room. Kisu’s living quarters? That had to be it, as I recalled Skyye saying he lived in a small room behind the library.

  I went over to it and knocked. No answer. I tried the knob.

  It opened.

  Should I go in?

  I’d come this far; of course I was going in. I entered the living space and pulled on a chain that hung from the cent
er of the room. A naked bulb screwed into the ceiling flooded the space with uncomfortable white light.

  A wooden chair.

  A small table.

  A twin-sized metal-framed bed with a thin mattress, worn blanket, and a single pillow.

  If this was his living quarters, not much living was going on.

  The only other items I could see in the room were a milk crate filled with a few toiletries, and a mini-fridge that hummed quietly against the back wall with a double-burner hot plate sitting on top of it.

  The room smelled like tuna fish.

  “Kisu?” I called out, though he obviously was not there.

  I let out a loud sigh and reached to turn off the light to leave, but something else caught my eye.

  A black suitcase peeked from underneath the bed. I knelt on the floor beside it and pulled it out. There was no lock, and the zipper was partially broken.

  I opened it.

  The inside was filled to the brim. Papers, pictures, and other documents were strewn about, in no obvious order. This was Kisu’s “envelope.” I smiled at the thought, taking Laz’s idea that an entire life could be summed up and packaged into a stack of papers.

  I sat on the bed, grabbing handfuls of the papers, and started flipping through them.

  At first, nothing jumped out at me. Newspaper clippings of various stories with global interests were mixed in with recipes of international cuisine. Receipts from various stores and online purchases proved that Kisu had a hearty appetite for books. Written words must be his company, I reasoned, looking back through the open door where the library sat musty, quiet.

  And then I got to a blue pocket folder. It was stored inside a clear plastic storage bag, tucked in a compartment almost unseen at the bottom of the suitcase. A sense of privacy loomed over it, and I wondered if it was too much of an intrusion to look through it.

  I had to.

  Holding my breath, I unzipped the storage bag, opened the folder, and gasped.

  Chapter 33

  A picture of me and Roman.

  His fifth-grade graduation.

  I recognized the light blue seersucker shorts suit and bowtie I made him wear, and the towering, rock-hard French roll I regrettably allowed my sister’s old friend KiKi Jackson to put in my hair. Roman had a scowl on his face and I looked like I was trying to not feel self-conscious about the small mountain that sat on the top of my head.

  I would have laughed at the photo at first glance, but eeriness surrounded its existence. First of all, it appeared to have been taken from a distance as Roman and I posed for my mother’s camera. Who snapped this photo? And why? And why did Kisu have it?

  I swallowed hard as my mind drew a blank for answers.

  There were two more photos.

  The next was of Mbali and her four children. This one was a professional portrait, a Christmas postcard. The photo captured an elegance, a regality, and a warmth about the large family I’d never noticed before. The back was not addressed, and again I wondered how and why Kisu had it.

  The third photo was of a white woman and a toddler who looked biracial.

  Who looked like RiChard.

  Same nose. Same shaped eyes. Same thick black curly hair.

  The two stood in front of what looked like a huge, ancient fountain. The buildings that surrounded them had an old-world European flair.

  RiChard had said his mother was from Perugia, Italy. I pulled out my smart phone and did a search for “Perugia Italy fountain.” The first result that displayed was for the Fontana Maggiore, a medieval fountain in a piazza in Perugia. The picture of the monumental fountain online was identical to the one in the photo.

  Perhaps this was a picture of RiChard and his mother together when he was young. But the clothes look too modern, I conceded as my gut feelings agreed. I turned the picture over.

  “Adriana and Luca, 1992,” was written on the back.

  1992. Two years before I met RiChard, who was a seasoned grad student when I was a freshman.

  I turned the photo back over, studied the beautiful young woman who had soft laugh lines and long wisps of dark hair. The toddler looked to be one or two in the photo, an equally beautiful child. Perhaps the two were cousins of RiChard, maybe even a sister and his nephew. I tried to explain the similarity in features between the boy and the man I had married years ago.

  But I knew in my heart I was straining to explain away the obvious.

  He’d told me he was an only child, that he didn’t have any family members with whom he communicated. He’d never had contact with his parents while we were together, or least no contact that I was aware of. Who knew what secrets he held, secrets hidden anywhere in the world?

  As I looked again at the pictures of me, of Mbali and her children, of the woman Adriana and most likely her son, Luca, I realized what else was bothering me.

  Years ago, when I’d first gotten the urn with the lion’s head ring inside, I’d gone to a Portuguese class at a community college with the hopes that the teacher could help me contact the senders of the package. The urn had a return address in Almada, Portugal, though later I would learn in a letter the teacher translated for me the package had originated from Kisu.

  What bothered me at the moment was that the other student in the class was named Luca. Luca Alexander, I recalled. His eyes had brightened when I’d shared some of my story, specifically when I said that my long-lost husband’s mother was from Perugia. “I’m from Perugia.” The dark-haired model wannabe had explained his sudden interest in my story. He had signed up for the class in anticipation of a trip to Rio.

  It was conjecture, I knew, the thought that now nagged at me. Luca is a common Italian name, I reasoned, and the odds . . .

  What was I thinking?

  I put the pictures away even as unexplained tears began filling my eyes. Whatever the explanation, I knew that there were no such things as coincidences in Christ, that God’s timing was perfect and purposeful.

  I moved to what was next in the folder. An unaddressed, unsealed business-sized envelope. I opened it.

  Photocopies of certificates.

  Marriage certificates.

  I took out my phone, put it on my document scanner setting. Then, smoothing each certificate down on the bed, I took a picture of each one, in order.

  Adriana Salvay and Alex Santiago. Married in Perugia, Italy.

  Sienna Davis and RiChard St. James. Married in Baltimore, Maryland.

  Mbali Busisiwe and RiChard St. James. Married in KwaZulu Natal Province, South Africa.

  Ana Clara Cardoso and Ricardo Santo Tiago. Married in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.

  What did this all mean?

  The first marriage was dated about three years before mine. The last wedding happened about a year after RiChard had left Mbali.

  “That bastard.” I shook my head as a conclusion settled in my mind. I laughed even as hot tears streamed down my face.

  Kisu had done a lot of research. His aims apparently as personal, as heartfelt, as mine. There were two more sheets of paper, folded up, placed face down in the other pocket of the folder. I shut my eyes; then, willing myself to look at them, opened my eyes again to get through it.

  A faded birth certificate.

  Alex Ricardo James.

  Born in Chicago, Illinois in 1971.

  Mother: Millicent Laquana Nelson.

  Father: Martin Santiago James.

  I was not a cussing woman. Indeed, I hadn’t uttered one profane word since the day Shakina Monroe in second grade bet that I wouldn’t say the S-word and I really wanted her candy bar. Looking at that birth certificate, however, I made up for my curse-free decades as every word I could think of spilled out my mouth.

  Everything I knew about RiChard St. James, or should I say, Alex Ricardo James, was a bold, disgusting lie. His mother was from Perugia, Italy? No! His first wife was! I looked again at all the documents, stopping once again at his birth certificate. Alex Ricardo James! In my anger, I almost shr
edded the delicate paper up, until I remembered that I was scanning each document I’d found into my phone. I was saving the file when my senses picked up something new.

  Footsteps.

  Flat echoes sounded in the hallway near the library, and I knew I had just moments before I was not alone. Forget scanning. I stuffed the birth certificate into my workbag, then grabbed the last unfolded sheet of paper that was in the folder and stuffed it into my bag as well.

  I’d look to see what that last paper was later. I had the information that I needed for the moment. I quickly stuffed the papers back into the suitcase and pushed it under the bed. Jumping to my feet, I checked that I had all my belongings with me: workbag, carry-on, and especially my phone! I pulled the chain to the light bulb and the room went dark. Shutting the door to the living quarters behind me, I stood frozen in a library aisle, trying to process the information I’d discovered in Kisu’s suitcase, wondering what I was going to say to him, assuming that it was indeed him returning to the library.

  The voices of two men sounded just outside the door where the footsteps had stopped.

  “Thank you, Father. Your help with this project will ensure that many orphans in Zambia are fed. I will be depositing the money tomorrow.”

  “Oh, it is our pleasure, Brother Felokwakhe. Christ has called us to serve the widows and the fatherless. Thank you for doing this great work. May you be highly blessed in God’s Kingdom. Good night.”

  Yes. Finally. Kisu.

  I exhaled and relief flooded through me as the door began to open. My smile grew as an older man in a tweed suit jacket and a clerical collar turned away from the doorframe, revealing the man who had been standing by him.

  The man took a step up into the doorway and our eyes met.

  RiChard.

  Both of us froze as I tried to make sense of why the man I knew as RiChard St. James and not Kisu was standing in front of me. He was thinner than when I’d last seen him nearly twenty years ago, his arms frail looking under the hunter green dress shirt he wore, his legs slightly bowed under his black trousers. His face, still the color of café au lait, was pockmarked and somewhat wrinkled, as if the years, and the sun, and the elements, and life itself had been harsh on him. Balding head. Slouched shoulders. Dull green eyes. I saw nothing that justified my obsession with him in our youth: no hint of his vigor; no trace of beauty; no residue of the charisma that had captivated crowds and towns, hearts and passions around the globe.