The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  “To where?”

  Ricardo lifted both hands up in the air. “City Hall, probably. The courthouse, for his hearing. They will take two vans, one for petty thieves and the like, the other for more serious criminals.”

  As my pulse began to beat erratically, I braced my notebook against my palm and scribbled a note, then ripped the page out and thrust it toward Ricardo. “Can your brother get this to Signor Genzano? It is very important.”

  Ricardo’s eyes scanned the note, then met mine. “Maybe,” he replied, his voice flat.

  I’d been in Rome long enough to know his disinterest wasn’t personal. I dug through my purse, found my wallet, and yanked out the largest bill I had, a hundred-thousand-lire note. According to the day’s exchange rate, I figured I was offering Ricardo at least two days’ espresso profits. “Can your brother get this to Signor Genzano?” I repeated, staring directly at Ricardo. “It is very important.”

  “Signorina,” he said, accepting the money and the sheet of paper with a gracious little bow, “I will see to it. Do not fear.”

  I watched him fold the papers and tuck them into his pocket, then I turned to face the jail. “What time will they move him, do you think?”

  Ricardo squinted toward the setting sun. “The vans usually leave the prison around nine o’clock.” A smile nudged itself into a corner of his mouth. “If you want to speak to the prisoner, you might get here early. Sometimes these things can be arranged.”

  If you have the money and the connections. He didn’t have to spell it out for me this time. I nodded and glared at the horrid prison one final time, then moved down the street where I’d be more likely to catch a cab.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE MAN IN THE CELL NEXT DOOR KEPT BABBLING AT THE MOON, BUT Asher made no effort to block the sound. He clutched the unfolded sheet of notebook paper and read the message again:

  Tomorrow—I will do what I can. If I can’t convince someone in Rome to help you, I will pray for a heavenly defender.

  Always, Claudia.

  Tears welled up in his eyes as he read the message a third time. Dear Claudia. What a friend she had become! Faithful, loving, and merciful. All the things Jesus was.

  That thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck deep in the pit of his stomach. Claudia has become more like Jesus in the last week than I have in the last two thousand years.

  He felt the bitter gall of envy burn the back of his throat. How could one so young and inexperienced come to a fuller understanding than he? He had been following the path of martyred saints for generations, subjugating his desires, denying his earthly impulses, avoiding temptations of the flesh. He had shunned the spotlight, given himself to study and research, and all for—what? To be rebuked by a young American who could hardly quote Scripture without prompting?

  Lifting his eyes to the cracked and stained ceiling, he whispered, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

  No answer came from heaven; he heard no sound at all but coarse laughter from the man in the next cell. Asher stretched out upon his bunk and folded his hands behind his head. Hearing wisdom from Claudia’s lips and seeing the light of holiness in her eyes only amplified his feeling of estrangement. The chasm between himself and God yawned like an open wound.

  Had he always been separated like this? Claudia said she felt the Spirit of God speak to her; he had actually awakened her in the night. Never in all the winding length of Asher’s memory had the Spirit spoken to him. Never had he felt the confidence that lit Claudia’s face as she spoke of grace and love and forgiveness.

  But grace and love and forgiveness had to be earned! One had to labor to be worthy of the high calling of Christ Jesus. One had to live a holy and blameless life! Even Jesus said his followers would have to drink the cup of suffering . . .

  He breathed deep and felt a stab of memory, a sharp shard of Scripture: And if they are saved by God’s kindness, then it is not by their good works. For in that case, God’s wonderful kindness would not be what it really is—free and undeserved.

  The words made his throat ache with regret. Had he been so misled? Could the key to unlocking his life really lie in simple trust?

  His mind filtered back to the afternoon. He and the other prisoners had filed into the dingy recreation room to watch an American movie, The Wizard of Oz. He had thought it a silly story until the end, when Dorothy discovered she didn’t need the wizard, the witch, or the magic of Emerald City to return to her true home. She only had to close her eyes, tap her heels, and whisper, “There’s no place like home . . .”

  Dorothy had worked, risked death, and suffered for no reason . . . no, that wasn’t true. In her journey, she had made friends and influenced people along the Yellow Brick Road. But it wasn’t until she learned that the desires of her heart lay in her own backyard that she could find her way home.

  Asher let his gaze rove over the stained ceiling, the crumbling walls, the filthy floor. He had been searching for a true home, a place of rest, all his life. Just as Dorothy had set out to disarm the Wicked Witch of the West; he had set out to disarm the Antichrist. Now Claudia wanted him to stop striving and rest.

  The sound of crazed laughter filled the heavy air. Asher closed his eyes, bracing himself against the diabolical sound. Across the hall another man let a stream of curses fly, stunning the laughing simpleton into silence, at least for a moment. From another cellblock rose a shriek as thin as a paper cut, accompanied by pulsing sobs. Asher clapped his hands over his ears and rolled onto his side, trying desperately to block the vile sounds of human pain and madness. He’d grown soft in the last sixty years. After leaving Nazi Germany, he had wandered mostly in civilized countries, leaving behind the cries and whimpers of suffering men . . .

  As unexpected as a ray of sunshine in the middle of a summer shower, another sound suddenly poured from a distant cell. A tenor voice, pure as mountain spring water, began to sing a hymn Asher had not heard in ages: Grazia sorprendente, quanto dolce il sano che ha salvato un miserabile come me! . . .

  Asher rolled off his bunk and walked to the locked door, then folded his hands around the iron bars. He pressed his face into the narrow opening, trying to get as close as possible to the source of the sound. Ero perso ma ora mi sono trovato . . . Ero cieco, ma ora vedo.

  The cursing stopped as the heavenly voice floated over the complex. Attraverso molti pericoli, tormenti e difficolta gia sono passato . . .

  Asher could feel each separate thump of his heart against the wall of his chest. Questa grazia é stata la mia salvezza e la mia guida.

  Would grace lead him home? Unable to control the spasmodic trembling within him, Asher clung to the bars and took a deep breath. “Father,” he whispered, his mind curling lovingly around the thought of release. “Father, will you hear me?”

  Asher waited, oblivious to everything but the certainty that he had found what he had been seeking for years. “Father, can it be so simple? Jesus said I would live until I saw him clearly—Father, I would see Jesus!”

  And then, like a warm wind that stirred his soul, came a voice he had never heard or felt or sensed: There is a path before each person that seems right, but it ends in death. Fear not, beloved. My grace is sufficient for you; my strength is made perfect in weakness.

  A hot tear rolled down Asher’s face as his heart sang with delight. The truth was so simple even a child could grasp it. A blush of pleasure rose to his cheeks as he lifted his hands in praise and thanksgiving, then joined in the song.

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost, but now am found, ’twas blind, but now I see.

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come,

  ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

  THIRTY-SIX

  CROSS AND FRUSTRATED BECAUSE IT TOOK FIFTEEN MINUTES TO FIND a cab, I arrived at the prison at eight-thirty the next morning. Clutching my purse, wh
ich I had stuffed with persuasive hundred-thousand-lire notes, I approached the main entrance, then nearly shrieked in disappointment when the officer at the desk told me guests were not allowed to visit prisoners awaiting transport.

  I told myself to calm down; I had prepared for this contingency. Giving the officer my most beguiling smile, I pulled one of the colorful currency notes from my purse and slid it over the desk. “Can’t we make one exception?” I asked, wishing I had looked up a few pertinent jailhouse expressions in my Italian phrase book. I could use all the sympathetic feelings I could arouse today.

  I could tell from the guard’s posture, however, that he was in no mood to bargain. He gave the money a cold glance, then glared at me. “No exceptions,” he barked, rising from his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Now, if you will excuse me, signorina, I must attend to other work.”

  I picked up the money and crumpled it in my palm, struggling to hold back tears of frustration. I had planned to ask Asher to name Kurt Welton as his psychologist of record, so the court could at least call Kurt and get an appropriate referral. But unless I had a chance to speak to him—

  A tall man with a mustache stepped out of a hall and stared straight at me, his eyes narrowing. “Signorina Fischer?”

  A cry of relief broke from my lips. “Si! Have you news for me?”

  He came toward me with long strides, glancing over his shoulder as he approached. His furtive attitude immediately put a damper on my rising spirits. “I am Ricardo’s brother.” He whispered out of one side of his mouth, like a gangster in an old-fashioned movie. “I have a letter for you.”

  The hesitation in his hawk like eyes disturbed me. “A letter?”

  “From Signor Genzano.”

  I put out my hand in silent expectation, then realized the man was waiting for money. Silently grumbling against the greasy-palm system of government, I pressed the crumpled hundred-thousand-lire note into the man’s palm.

  The money disappeared, then the tall officer reached into his coat and pulled out a long, white envelope. “I myself delivered the envelope, paper, and pen to Signor Genzano,” he said, as if I should reward him further for his generosity. “He was most anxious to write you.”

  The noise level outside the prison suddenly increased, and Ricardo’s brother politely steered me toward the door. “They are bringing out the prisoners now,” he said, pushing the door open. “If you want to speak to your friend, you may be able to call to him.”

  I found myself caught up in a crowd of relatives and reporters moving toward an eight-foot chain-link fence. Within the fenced perimeter, a pair of dark blue police vans waited beside one of the prison blocks. Scanning the doorway of the prison, I saw a row of handcuffed and shackled prisoners. After being counted off, the prisoners were led to the first blue van.

  After all these prisoners—the petty criminals, I assumed—were secure, the guards closed the doors and the van sped through the gate. The crowd surged forward as mothers and fathers and wives shouted and waved to loved ones within the vehicle, then the cries faded. Many people drifted away, some sobbing in heartbreak. Those of us who remained turned our attention back to the prison, where another van was revving its engine.

  That’s when I saw Asher. He came through a doorway and shuffled forward, a guard at each side. Though the restraints made his movements seem awkward and halting, he carried his head high. He turned as if to scan the crowd at the fence, but one of the guards shoved him toward the back of the open van. My heart pounded as I watched him sit on a bench, then a guard secured his manacles to an overhead bar that ran the length of the vehicle.

  As the guards stepped away, I called out Asher’s name, but at that exact moment every reporter in the crowd yelled to him as well. “Signor Genzano! Avete provato ad uccidere Santos Justus? Why would you try to kill the world’s peacemaker?”

  I stood on tiptoe, trying to see above a half-dozen other heads, then realized the task was impossible. Breaking free of the media mob, I followed the fence to the gate, then positioned myself next to the opening. Asher would see me when he passed by, and I would not let myself be pushed aside.

  As I suspected, the mob of reporters moved as the van pulled out, and within a moment I was clinging to the fence, my eyes following the van. There were no windows in the side except for those of the driver and the guard, but two back windows allowed us to see inside as the van passed. Calling Asher’s name, I held up my arms against the chain link, then froze as Asher’s gaze met mine. I saw the flicker of a smile cross his face, then he swiveled slightly and opened his hands, showing me—what? That his hands were empty? That he would hold my hands if he could?

  A sense of anticlimax visibly descended upon our group as the van turned onto the main road. The reporters lowered their microphones; the cameramen shut off their cameras. I lowered my arms and moved away from the fence, my misery so acute it felt like physical pain. I’d have to be more positive when I arrived at the courthouse. I couldn’t let Asher see me like this.

  Beside me, an Italian journalist stood in front of her cameraman, recording a lead-in to her story. I walked directly behind her, too weary to care if I ruined her perfect shot. Below the curve of the hill I could see Asher’s blue van cruising the street, then slowing to turn onto the bridge. A group of tourists at the bridge railing were posing for a picture with the Tiber River as a backdrop. Some fool with a camera stood in the middle of the road, apparently oblivious to all traffic.

  As the van driver honked his horn, the tourist snapped his picture, then saluted the guards with a jaunty wave. As the driver shook his head in exasperation, the tourist jogged across the street to join his friends at the railing.

  I found myself muttering, “E un americanata!” So typically American, so arrogant and thoughtless.

  At the sound of a shrill cry, I slowed my steps. The newswoman who had been recording her sound bite was pointing toward the bridge, her face contorted in horror. As my eyes followed her trembling fingers, I saw that a small child—a toddler, probably not more than two or three years old—had wandered away from the distracted tourists. The van driver saw the child at the last moment and abruptly jerked the wheel. The sickening sound of a metal-to-metal impact slammed against my ears, and in astounded horror I watched the van teeter on the bent railing, then fall, end over end, into the silver waters of the swollen river.

  I lurched toward the bridge with the pack of reporters and photo- graphers. More screams chilled the air now, but I barely heard them, so loud was the roaring of blood in my ears.

  I was one of the last to arrive at the wounded railing. The water beneath did not seem deep, for we could see the dark shadow of the overturned van in the waters below. The two guards had managed to release their seat belts by the time I arrived, and both bobbed in the water.

  But I couldn’t see Asher.

  A wave of grayness passed over me, sapping my strength. I sank to a stone curb and stared mindlessly at the water, counting the minutes it had taken for me to run from the road to the bridge. Had it been three minutes? Four? How long could a person hold his breath underwater?

  Tension descended upon the area like toxic gas, driving the crowd to panicked action. The tourists huddled together, some snapping pictures while others pressed their hands to their chests and gaped in horror. A handful of policemen ran from the prison and dived into the water to rescue their comrades, while the news cameras captured every moment.

  I sat without moving as the moments passed one after the other, knowing I would never see Asher again. He had been handcuffed to a stationary railing, so he had drowned . . . or had he? I found myself hoping they would bring his body to the surface and take him to the morgue. I would speak for him, argue against an embalming, and wait until his heart began to beat again. Then someone would call a psychologist for me.

  Surrounded by an ever-increasing crowd of reporters and curious onlookers, I sat numbly on the curb until the police divers surfaced for the last time, nearly three
hours after the accident. One of the divers, his wet suit shining in the bright sun, climbed into a boat and spoke to a police captain; a few moments later the captain gave the news to the reporters. I stood and wandered through the crowd until I found a newscaster who spoke English.

  “The police chief reports that the single casualty in today’s accident was Asher Genzano, a lifetime resident of Rome,” the newscaster said, offering his best look of concern to the camera. “Due to the currents in the river, the body has not been recovered.”

  Pressing my lips together, I backed away and left the reporters to their speculations. They might fool the public, but they couldn’t fool me. I knew Asher’s hands had been cuffed to the restraining pole; I saw that the van’s door remained closed even after the vehicle submerged. Furthermore, I knew the currents of the Tiber were about as swift as molasses in winter.

  The truth was unspeakable and unexplainable. Asher Genzano had vanished.

  I had walked nearly a mile before I even remembered the letter. A moment of panic seized me as I felt for it in my pockets, then I discovered that I had stashed it in my purse at some point during the excitement.

  I pulled it out, weighed its heft in my palm, then decided that Asher’s letter would best be savored over a cup of espresso. I stepped into the nearest trattoria, ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee, then took a quiet table in the corner of the building.

  I broke the seal, unfolded the plain pages, and began to read:

  My very dear friend Claudia:

  I do not know what today will bring forth, but I know you are not meant to sorrow for me. I believe—indeed, I know—that God has restored me to my rightful place. Release will come for me in God’s time, and I have never been more ready to face it. I find myself agreeing with Paul—I want to really live and yet I long to be with Christ. For the godly who die will rest in peace.

  Tonight I thought about what you said and realized you were right. Tonight I have surrendered my work, my striving, and my goals to the One who has sought me relentlessly for over two thousand years. I thought I was doing the world a service by pursuing the Antichrist, and now I see that Christ has done me a greater service by pursuing me. I know others will find my story unbelievable, but I believe it is a testimony to the unfathomable riches of Christ’s mercy. Tonight I saw the Savior even more clearly than I saw him in Pilate’s palace. Then I saw a prisoner on his way to death. Tonight I saw the Lord of Grace, extending his love and forgiveness to one who could never deserve it. I saw him, Claudia, and in that moment I was freed.