The Cloning

  *

  “God works in mysterious ways,” Stephen said to Marc, looking down through a slit in the curtains of Marc’s office window.

  “Look at them!”

  There were hundreds of people below, mostly women, staging a noisy protest demanding that a lesbian carry the fetus.

  “Let’s have a gay womb!” they chanted. “Let’s have a gay womb! Let’s have a gay womb!”

  Their placards and signs were equally to the point.

  “There were over fifty thousand marching in Times Square last night,” Stephen added, “from all over the country. It’s not a constituency to be ignored.”

  “I don’t want to ignore anybody. But I also don’t want to wait indefinitely while all these questions are sorted out. I’m ready to start the cloning,” Marc grumbled.

  “I understand,” Stephen consoled, “but the Vatican called this morning. The Pope has asked that you hold off again until this latest question is settled.”

  “Damn it to hell! How long is that going to take?” Marc exploded, his patience exhausted.

  *

  The pressure on Marc’s staying power was just beginning. That night, the Ambassador from Japan was a guest on the PBS News Hour.

  “Mister Ambassador, although your country has a relatively small number of Christians, there’s apparently a growing feeling that Japanese women want to be considered as candidates for carrying the baby.”

  “That is most true,” the Ambassador agreed. “As you know, sir, there is a widespread tendency in my country to emulate Western trends. There are many people in Japan, particularly among the younger generations, who feel that it would be a disgrace if Japanese women were ignored for the role of the Mother.”

  “Is it possible that the question could have implications on Japan’s international relations?”

  “Profound implication, in my opinion. If Japan were to be overlooked . . . and if a sizable number of our citizens turned their backs on the West as a result, this could have a major effect on the balance of trade. No one can guess what the economic results might be.”

  “Is the White House aware of the scope of this danger?”

  “Oh yes, indeed. Diplomatic contact has been made at the highest levels.”

  *

  The problems snowballed. Other nations, other races, other minorities, demanded to be considered. Since the experiment was being conducted under the aegis of the Roman Catholic Church, most of the complaints and appeals were directed to Rome. But these became so numerous that the hierarchy of the church was soon inundated, simply unable to handle the volume of demands.

  Noses around the world were thrown out of joint as the controversy raged. Finally, several nations broke diplomatic relations with the Vatican.

  “This is your fault!” Cardinal Dugan said, slamming the morning newspaper on Marc’s desk. The headline read, “Baby Brouhaha Boils Over.”

  “I warned you,” Dugan continued, his face gone beyond red into a shade of violet. Marc wondered what would be the next color for the Cardinal. Was there such a thing as ultra-violet complexion?

  “You’re right . . . you did,” Marc conceded.

  “The Holy Father has had to appeal to the United Nations to settle the matter.”

  “Good,” Marc growled, “because I’d like to get on with it.”

  There was a knock on the door, and the uniformed guard, Harry, entered. “There’s a lady named Enright out here . . . says she’s the Ambassador to the United Nations.”

  “Let her in,” Marc told him, amazed.

  Sarah Enright was a pleasant looking woman in her sixties whose face exuded humanity and intelligence. “Doctor Solovino? I’m Ambassador Enright,” she said, offering her hand.

  Marc shook her hand, then introduced the Cardinal.

  “I’ve just come from the White House, Doctor. As you can imagine, the President is very concerned about this problem. The debate at the United Nations is scheduled to begin later this week.”

  “Good,” Marc remarked. “I’d like to proceed with the cloning.”

  “The President feels that we must do everything in our power to see that the question of the Mother be settled before the problem escalates further.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  “He feels that it would be very helpful if you were to address the Assembly,” Enright continued.

  Marc’s mouth nearly fell open. “Me? The General Assembly . . . of the United Nations?”

  “Yes. The President feels that your role in this matter qualifies you eminently to make recommendations for settling the problem equitably.”

  Marc was totally dumbfounded for a moment. Finally he found his tongue. “This is sort of out of my range. I mean, I’m used to lecturing to my classes, but . . . is this really necessary?” he inquired weakly.

  “It would be a great service to your country . . . and to the world,” the Ambassador replied.

  Cardinal Dugan crossed himself.

  *

  Two days later, Marc was flown to Manhattan in an Air Force passenger jet. He was met at a secluded area of LaGuardia’s tarmac by Ambassador Enright and her staff, then led to a small convoy of limousines that headed for the United Nations. In front of him, police motorcycles from the NYPD blared their sirens, flashed their red lights, leading Marc’s limo across the R.F.K. Bridge to the F.D.R. Drive.

  He was in a state of disbelief. It had all happened so quickly . . . too quickly. He glanced at the text of his speech one more time as the car sped along the East River and realized that here was the perfect opportunity to pull the plug on the project, to remove himself from the cyclone of publicity in which he’d been existing. All he needed to do was discard his prepared statement and announce that he’d realized the whole cloning concept was misled, that he’d return his fragment of the hair to Turin. This whole mess would blow over; he could take a deep breath and revert to his old life. Even the Pope would be off the hook, which would probably please the old guy, Mark speculated. It was all so simple.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a group of Secret Service agents swarming around his limousine as it turned into the U.N. entrance. The Secretary-General and other dignitaries were on hand to greet him and lead him into the building where TV lights glared and microphones were thrust in his direction. Almost before he had time to catch his breath, he found himself on the variegated green marble podium of the General Assembly Hall, and the Secretary-General was introducing him to the distinguished gathering. A wave of applause greeted him as he rose, walked to the dais, and faced what seemed to be an ocean of faces representing all the nations of the world.

  *

  Propped up in her hospital bed in Boston, Nora watched the television coverage with pride—and a bit of amusement—because she knew that Marc must certainly have very cold feet. Little did she guess that he was on the verge of scuttling the entire enterprise. But before he could open his mouth, he began to feel a sensation he’d never before experienced, as if suddenly he were on a slippery slope, totally out of control of himself, moving inexorably toward the unknown, into a void. Only when he opened his text did the vertiginous phenomenon cease. A sense of normalcy returned as he began to read his opening remarks, and by the time he reached the crux of his speech, he felt completely calm.

  “ . . . and although there has been some talk of dropping this experiment entirely because of the problems it has raised in many areas, I am convinced that means can be found to facilitate its culmination.”

  In his regal office, Cardinal Dugan poured himself a nip of Irish whiskey, hardly removing his eyes from the TV screen in the process. Father Steven Reilly sat nearby, also watching with great interest, musing on his raunchy buddy’s appearance in such an august setting. Certainly this was a miracle of no small magnitude, Stephen thought. And there may be more to come.

  Marc continued, “In my opinion, it would be morally indefensible to abandon this project simply because of disagreements over who should furnish
the ovum and carry it for nine months of gestation. Surely there must be some way of deciding this relatively simple question with fairness to all. Therefore, it’s my suggestion that each of the one hundred and eighty nations represented in this Assembly be allowed to nominate one woman to be the mother of the baby.”

  Across the Atlantic, the Pope sat before a television set, his hands folded prayerfully.

  “Each nation would devise its own equitable system for selecting a candidate, according to its own particular standards, but the United Nations itself would be in charge of the final selection. I recommend that this be handled like a lottery . . . the drawing to be conducted one month from this date to avoid further prolonged debate and dissension. Thank you.”

  The brevity and straightforwardness of Marc’s speech left the delegates momentarily unprepared to react, and there was a deafening silence for a few attenuated seconds. But then the hall broke into applause which grew and grew until it became thunderous, a great and rare feeling of unanimity sweeping over the General Assembly, bringing all the delegates to their feet.

  *

  The next day, congresses, parliaments, legislatures, senates, and other governing bodies around the globe began making their various arrangements for selecting the Madonna candidate from each country.

  In the small Central American country of Santo Cristo, Generalissimo Madeira paced the tiled floor in his high-ceilinged office overlooking the main square of the city. Palm trees and bougainvillea could be seen through the windows that were opened to admit a tropical breeze off the Caribbean. This was the same man Marc had seen briefly in the anteroom of the Vatican several months earlier. But today, the Generalissimo was not wearing his dress uniform with the medals. Instead, he was in his shirtsleeves, perspiring heavily as he impatiently awaited the arrival of his daughter, Maria. “Where is she?” he demanded anxiously of his aide, Colonel Rodriguez.

  Snapping to attention, Rodriguez replied, “She said that she was coming, Jefe.”

  “She’s probably gone shopping. My biggest mistake was sending her to school in the United States.”

  “Shall I send someone for her?” the Colonel offered.

  “I’ll go myself,” Madeira said, heading for the door. Just as he opened it, Maria appeared. She’d returned to Santo Cristo the day before from Missouri, on her mid-term break. She was dressed in a full skirt and a low cut blouse and was again wearing earphones and smoking a cigarette.

  “Ah, Maria. There you are,” Madeira said loudly, trying to hide his annoyance at the ubiquitous earphones, but hoping to begin this conversation with his best foot forward.

  Colonel Rodriguez came to attention and bowed slightly from the waist. Maria wasn’t surprised that he made no move to leave the room; for security reasons, her father was never alone.

  “You wanted me?” she asked casually as she pulled the earphones from her ears.

  “Yes. How are you feeling?” her father began solicitously.

  “I’m okay,” she replied suspiciously. “What’s up?”

  “I thought we might have a conversation,” he began.

  “Us? About what?”

  “You’re home from college for three weeks. We should talk.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “You’ve heard about the cloning, haven’t you? The plebiscite to pick Santo Cristo’s candidate for the new Madonna?”

  “Of course I’ve heard. What about it?”

  “It will be a very great honor for some young woman.”

  “Sure, it will, but what’s that got to do with . . .?” and she stopped mid-sentence, realizing what was causing the gleam in her father’s eye. “Oh no. Not me. “

  “Of course you.”

  “Forget it,” Maria asserted. “No way.”

  “You don’t want to be honored?”

  “Not that kind of honor!”

  “Why not?” the Generalissimo demanded.

  “I don’t want to be the new Mary!”

  “But you would be perfect. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’re smart. You already have the right name . . .”

  Maria topped him, “There are plenty of others with that name.” She flicked the ashes from her cigarette. “And young too.”

  “But you’re my daughter . . . El Presidente’s little girl. If you win the lottery and become the new Madonna, my opposition would be crushed like grasshoppers. I would stay in office for the rest of my life.”

  As she lit another cigarette, Maria asked, “And what about me? What would I be for the rest of my life?”

  “You would be famous. You’d be the mother of God! What do you want, for God’s sake?”

  Maria walked to the window, looked out, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. She realized that her father was dead serious, that this was something he desperately wanted. Maybe she could use it to her own advantage. “I’m not sure I’d like it.”

  “Why not?” the bewildered President asked.

  “Because,” Maria turned back to him, “I want a husband someday. Don’t forget, Blessed Maria was a virgin.”

  The Generalissimo threw his hands into the air in dismay. “Caramba!”

  “Is it so bad that I want like a normal life?” Maria asked.

  “I’ve given you everything you’ve wanted for twenty years. Is it so much for you to do one thing for me?” he pleaded.

  Seeing his chief’s problem, Colonel Rodriguez interrupted, “Excuse me, Generalissimo. It is not often discussed, but according to the Protestant faith, the Blessed Mother of God was later married to Joseph. And the story goes that she had other children by him.”

  “Is that so?” Madeira replied, then turned to Maria. “There, you see! You can be a virgin and have a husband too.”

  “Nobody would want me after I already had a baby . . . with no father,” she protested.

  “Of course they’d want you. They’d be knocking down the doors to marry you. You’d be more famous than Britney . . . whoever that girl is!”

  “Spears,” Maria volunteered, then paused as this thought resonated. She took a long drag from her cigarette, then asked, “Would you let me dye my hair blonde?”

  “Of course! You could dye it every color of the rainbow!” he assured her.

  Now she knew for sure that her father was more than serious . . . he was desperate. Things had been going poorly for him during the last year or so; he was being blamed for the weak economic conditions in Santo Cristo, and the opposition was nipping at his heels. A coup wasn’t out of the question. Realizing that for once she held all the aces, Maria didn’t hesitate to play her cards.

  “Will you let me drop out of college?”

  “Drop out? Before you graduate?” He was aghast.

  “That’s what ‘dropping out’ means,” she clarified.

  “But you must get the college lamb skin,” her father insisted. As a school dropout himself at age fourteen, he was determined that his only child complete a college education so that she would be seen as acceptable to follow in his footsteps, the start of a dynasty.

  But Maria had never been a good student; tests showed that she had above normal intelligence but she also suffered from a mild incidence of dyslexia, which had contributed to problems with studies all her life. And attending a different school every year had exacerbated her scholastic difficulties. After turning seventeen, she had been vastly relieved when it became apparent that she would actually receive a high school diploma; she’d assumed that that would be all the education she’d have to endure, but her father had insisted, wheedled, and threatened until she had no choice but to matriculate at a college in the States. From the start she’d sought schools that offered a number of non-academic courses and catered to students who had problems with strict educational discipline, but still her college years had been a grind. Now she suddenly realized that this was her chance to change things, to get out from under her father’s thumb.

  “I’ll make a deal,” she offered. “If you let me dr
op out right now and take all of next year off . . . and if you let me travel wherever I want to go for the year, with no chaperone . . . I’ll do it.”

  “But how will you travel if you’re carrying the new Messiah?”

  “That’s the gamble you’ll have to take. You can enter my name in the plebiscite. If I win, then I’ll be the candidate from Santo Cristo. If I lose, then I can have a year to do what I want.” Maria figured the odds were very much in her favor; first, it was a long shot that she’d be chosen to represent Santo Cristo because of her father’s current unpopularity; and second, if by some chance she were to lose that gamble, it was even more unlikely that she be chosen out of all the young women nominated by each of the United Nations. No way would she be carrying the new Messiah. “Is it a deal?” she pressed.

  Without a moment’s hesitation her father agreed.

  “You’re the witness, Colonel,” Maria said to Rodriguez.

  “Yes, senorita,” he agreed with a sharp nod of the head.

  She shook her father’s hand in solemn agreement, then sashayed out of the room.

  Madeira’s eyes lit up. Turning to his aide, he said, “I want her to win that election, do you hear me? I don’t care what it takes. If every name in the cemetery has to be used, I don’t care. If you have to buy all the votes in the country, it doesn’t matter. I want Maria to win! Now, get to it.”

  Colonel Rodriguez snapped to attention and saluted smartly.

  *

  The following week in Washington, Congress voted to select the United States candidate in a series of competitions modeled on the Miss America contest. With inordinate speed, state contests were organized, and on the night of George Washington’s birthday, all fifty competitions were simultaneously held . . . displaying the girls in evening dress, swimsuit, and talent categories. In the personality interview, no questions relating to religion were allowed, avoiding anything that smacked of religious prejudice. The state winners were sent to Washington where, in a remarkable display of ecumenism, the finals were held in the National Cathedral.