Marc and Nora watched the TV together in her hospital room. She was in a wheel chair, much improved, and anxious to be discharged. Marc hadn’t confided to her about his experience on the dais of the U.N. How could he begin to explain something that he didn’t begin to understand himself? It had happened so fleetingly that it was almost as if it hadn’t happened at all; he’d nearly dismissed it from his mind.
Nora was feeling well enough to giggle at the television presentation. “If only Bert Parks were alive,” she commented.
“Who?” Mark asked.
Nora smiled to herself. “Never mind. Have you ever seen such a vulgar display in your life? What do they think they’re selecting?”
“It’s show biz, Nora. It’s the hype the Archbishop wanted.”
“I blush,” she replied, “for the whole country.”
“The only rationale I can see is that there’s a statistical correlation between beauty and good health.”
“Thank God they didn’t examine their teeth,” Nora commented. “Well, at least Israel has saved itself some embarrassment.”
“What?”
“You didn’t hear the bulletin just before the contest? The government of Israel fell . . . the majority concurring that their country had no place in the contest.”
“Why? Jesus was a Jew. So was Mary.”
“But they don’t believe Jesus was the Messiah in the first place . . . so why change this go-round?”
*
Later that same night in Santo Cristo, Maria was sleeping quietly when her father burst into her bedroom and switched on the lights.
“Wake up, Maria! Wake up! The votes are counted! You’ve won!” he shouted, pulling her to him in a frantic embrace. “You’re going to represent Santo Cristo, my little darling.”
“Big deal,” she replied, annoyed at being wakened so abruptly.
“Aren’t you excited? You’re going to be the new Virgin!”
“Says who?” Maria groused. “You can’t rig the lottery at the United Nations.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Madeira asked indignantly.
“Papa, I know how I won.”
Pretending to be hurt, her father self-righteously denied any knowledge of her implication.
“It doesn’t matter. The chances are one hundred and seventy-nine to one that I will not be the girl. So don’t lose any sleep over those odds. Go to bed,” she said, turning away from him and pulling a pillow over her head.
*
Exactly one week later, the headline of the Boston Globe read: “THE LORD’S LOTTERY TODAY!” Cardinal Dugan glanced at it, then tossed it angrily into his mahogany trashcan.
“You may suffer eternal damnation for this,” he growled to Father Reilly.
“I’ve already suffered quite a lot, Eminence. You’ve seen to that,” Stephen replied.
“Go ahead. Turn the television on,” the Cardinal commanded.
Stephen turned to NBC. Brian Williams appeared on the screen.
“ . . . we are a part of the largest television audience ever to watch a single event in the history of the earth. Today believers and non-believers alike are gathered in front of their TV screens for an event that is being beamed by satellites to every single corner of the globe. It is estimated that over seven hundred million people are watching . . . men, women, and children of every race, color, and creed.”
“That’s hype,” Stephen interjected.
“Not the kind I had in mind,” the unforgiving Dugan snapped.
Williams continued, “And now we go to the United Nations where the Pope is about to select one of the hundred and eighty Ping-Pong balls, each one representing a member nation. The accounting firm of Price-Waterhouse has attested to the accuracy of the balls and the names which were hand-lettered on each of them.”
The Pope was seated at the speaker’s chair, dressed in his white cassock, his head bowed in prayer. A quiet murmur of anticipation filled the General Assembly Hall.
“The Pope is clearly in a weakened condition after three days of prayer and fasting. And, of course, the long flight from Rome was tiring. But perhaps the heaviest burden he carries is the knowledge that he gave the go-ahead for this momentous experiment . . . an experiment that has already brought major changes to the world’s largest religious body . . . and could conceivably change it even more radically.”
In Marc’s office, he and Nora were glued to the television.
“God help the poor man,” Nora commented.
“And now the Secretary-General is moving toward the Pope. The time is drawing near . . . the moment that has the world holding its breath.”
The Secretary-General spoke quietly to the Pope who then rose and moved to the apparatus that had been borrowed for this occasion from the New York State Lottery. The Pope turned on the switch, and the machine began to whir, propelling the Ping-Pong balls into the air inside the Lucite case.
An expectant hush fell over the delegates. The Pope crossed himself, looking heavenward, then pressed the button that caused one of the balls to be expelled. It rolled into the plastic trough, and bounced to a standstill. The Pope picked up the small white orb and handed it to the Secretary-General.
The Secretary-General held the ball up for everyone to see, then announced to the world, “The chosen country is . . . Santo Cristo. And the woman is . . . Maria Madeira.”
*
In the capital of Santo Cristo, Generalissimo Madeira leapt into the air, letting out a wild whoop. He grabbed Colonel Rodriguez and twirled him around his office in a dance of joy.
“She’s it! Did you hear him? Maria is it! My daughter’s going to give birth to Jesus. My name will be immortal! The grandfather of God!”
Maria sat nearby, staring at the television set in total disbelief.
CHAPTER 8
Later that week, Marc was in his laboratory going through a step-by-step dry run of the actual cloning when Harry, the guard, stuck his head in the door. “Cardinal Dugan’s here to see you,” he announced.
Marc girded himself and told Harry to send him in. Dugan strode into the room, brandishing the afternoon newspaper.
“You might as well stop whatever you’re doing,” he announced. Marc gave him a quizzical look, waited for more. “You’ve created another problem,” the Cardinal continued.
“What is it this time?” Marc asked wearily.
“It says here that you can select the sex of the baby. Is that true?”
“Sure. It just depends on the X and Y chromosomes.”
“And which are you planning to select, may I presume to ask?”
“Male, of course,” Marc replied. “Wasn’t Jesus a male?”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about any of this!” Dugan shouted. “The feminists say the idea of God being male is anachronistic. They want it to be a girl.”
“Aw, come on!”
“Don’t use that impatient tone with me, young man! You of all people should have realized that half the population is female.”
“Not exactly. Actually, it’s a little more than half. The precise reason for that is . . . ”
“I don’t care what the reason is!” the Cardinal interjected. “The Secretary- General’s been in touch with the Holy Father. They’re discussing a referendum.”
“And how much longer will that take?” Marc asked in dismay.
“The Secretary-General says it could be done in a month.”
“Damn! I’m fucking fed up with waiting,” Marc exploded. This was another of those times when he wished he’d never started the project. But he had enough self-awareness to realize that his ego had entered the equation, and if he were to walk away from the cloning at this point, his reputation would take one hell of a hit. He was committed to going ahead now, for better or worse.
“I’ve warned you about your filthy tongue, Doctor,” the Cardinal admonished.
From the hallway came the sounds of a high-pitched argument. “You can’t just walk in there, Miss!” Ha
rry insisted.
A woman’s voice topped his, “Says who? Don’t you know who I am?”
“Of course I do, but rules are rules.”
“Well, I’m breaking the rules,” she replied, and with that, Maria Madeira pushed her way into the lab, followed by Harry and two nuns in a flurry of wimples.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Solovino, I’ll get her out. Come on, Miss,” said Harry, taking Maria by the arm.
She shoved him away. “You take your filthy hands off of me!”
Marc quickly intervened, told Harry to let her stay.
“Thanks,” Maria said, turning to Marc. “Hi. I’m Maria Madeira.”
“So I gathered,” Marc replied wryly, offering his hand. “I’m Marc Solovino.”
“I know,” she said, shaking his hand. “We met before.”
Marc was totally caught off guard. Of course, he’d seen her picture on television and in the press, but he didn’t recall having seen her previously in person. “We did?”
“In Rome,” Maria explained, “while my father and I were waiting to see the Pope. I was wearing a black hat, remember?”
The memory was vague at first, but then he realized. This was the little bitch who’d given her father such a hard time. “Oh, sure,” Marc acknowledged.
“Listen, you’ve got to have a talk with these sisters. They’re driving me up the wall! I mean, like, they won’t let me smoke even one cigarette a day. And now, they’re saying I have to cut out beer too.”
The older of the two sisters took a step toward Dugan. “We’re just doing what we were told, Your Eminence.”
“I understand, Sister.”
“Why don’t you let me have a few minutes alone with Maria? All right?” Marc suggested conciliatorily to the others.
“Is that agreeable with you, my daughter?” Dugan asked Maria, anxious to maintain his place in the pecking order.
“Sure. Why not?” she shrugged.
“This way, Sisters,” the Cardinal said, herding the nuns outside, along with Harry.
Marc quickly sized up Maria. She appeared to be a healthy specimen, although a little flat chested. The color in her cheeks was good, her dark hair had a healthy sheen. She’d been brought to Boston shortly after the lottery and had been under the joint care of a gynecological team of doctors from Mass General and the Sisters of the Holy Trinity Convent. Although she was a certified virgin, her demeanor was far from the shy, retiring type normally associated with virginity.
“You know,” she led off, “this whole thing isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. I thought I’d be, like, somebody special, but ever since I came here, they’ve treated me like I’m in the army . . . calisthenics every morning, swimming every afternoon, salads till they’re coming out my ears.”
“We want the baby to be healthy, don’t we?” Marc countered.
“Don’t give me that ‘we’ crap. I get enough of that from the nurses.”
“Okay. You want the baby to be healthy, don’t you?”
“Sure,” she agreed, “but I’m not even carrying the baby yet! This is a crock!”
“You’ll be carrying it soon.”
“How soon?” she demanded to know.
“Looks like it may be another month,” he conceded.
“Another month? And after that another nine months! No! No way can I wait that long.”
There was a knock on the door, and Harry stuck his head inside again. “There’s a woman says she knows you. Cynthia Jordan.”
Marc was more than surprised because he’d never expected to hear from Cynthia again, much less see her. Still, the problem with this vixen from Santo Cristo was important, so he was inclined to tell Cynthia to wait outside for a few minutes. But then he realized that this untimely interruption might work to his advantage by giving Maria time to cool off. “Send her in,” he told Harry.
Looking like a blonde goddess, Cynthia sauntered in. “Surprised?”
“You might say that,” he admitted, taking in her long-legged beauty and her particular delicate perfume that always gave him a little lift. “Long time no see.”
“Lots of commissions lately,” she replied. “And obviously you’ve been rather occupied.”
“You might say that too,” Marc admitted, then added, almost as an afterthought, “This Maria Madeira.”
“Of course,” Cynthia smiled, “the lucky girl.”
“Hi,” Maria muttered as she checked out Cynthia’s stylish outfit and her beautifully coiffed blonde hair.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” Cynthia said to her, then turned back to Marc. “I have a new client in Colorado . . . wants to fly me out to take a look at her house in Vail, to get the feel of the place. She says I can bring someone along for a few days.”
He was instantly intrigued, especially in view of the latest postponement the Cardinal had just announced. “Seriously?”
“Absolutely,” Cynthia smiled. “Are you too busy for some spring skiing? Or are you still involved with that Lilliputian starlet?”
“Actually, that’s a thing of the past. And I’m in a sort of holding pattern with my work.”
“Wonderful. Why don’t you give me a buzz tomorrow . . . and we’ll work out our plans?”
“Fine by me,” Marc agreed, astonished that she seemed to have brushed aside the publicity about Freda so simply. “Or we can do it right now if you’ll just hang on a few minutes,” he volunteered.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” Maria interrupted, suddenly feeling very much the outsider. “I’ve got to go anyway.”
“No, wait a minute,” he insisted. “Look, I understand exactly how you feel—about the delay—but there's nothing I can do about it. It's a real pain, I know, but I'm as helpless as you are.”
“Oh really?” she challenged in a clearly dubious tone. “I thought you dreamed up the whole stupid idea.”
Marc glanced at Cynthia and caught the beginnings of a little smirk before she discreetly turned away. Maybe her sudden appearance wasn’t so advantageous after all, he thought, finding him tied up with this problem child. But the issue with Maria had to take precedence, so he returned his attention to her.
“Yes, I did think of the cloning,” he confessed, “but lately it's sort of gotten out of hand. It's like I'm part of a team effort now, you see, so I'm in the same boat as you. We'll both just have to wait.”
“I don't have to do anything, Doctor.”
From the fiery look in her eyes, Marc knew that she wasn't kidding. She could very easily take a walk, and then the entire selection process would have to be cranked up again; it could take another two or three months to select another woman, precious time during which the whole project could conceivably lose its impetus. On the other hand, he thought to himself, this girl's going to be a big problem . . . possibly a major problem. During the selection process, nobody had had the foresight to do any psychological screening of the candidates. If they had, this girl would clearly have been bumped from the “A” list. Although losing her would be problematic, in the long run it might be better for the overall good of the project to find someone else who'd be better suited to the role of mother.
“No, that's true,” he admitted to Maria, “you don't have to do anything. But if I may ask, exactly why did you agree to be in the contest in the first place? I doubt if your father could have forced you.”
“Of course not. He is not my boss.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I have my reasons,” Maria acknowledged begrudgingly, “but nobody told me it would take this long to get started.”
“Would you like to back out?” he asked point blank.
She hesitated, realizing that if she reneged, she would be back under her father's thumb immediately, back to college, back to the whole existence she'd hoped to escape. And, after all, there were some advantages to her current life-style, despite its strictures. At least she wasn't under the direct control of her father, and she wasn't going to col
lege, and there was a lot to be said for doing something different . . . something really different. No point in jumping out of the frying pan into the scholastic fire again.
“No,” she informed Marc, “I won the lottery, so I'll do it. But there's no reason I can't have a little fun, is there?”
“Look,” he said reassuringly, “I'll talk to the doctors at the hospital and ask them to cut you a little slack.”
“What about the nuns?” she pressed.
“I'll see what I can do,” he promised vaguely.
“Okay.”
“You just hang in there. Everything’ll work out. The time will pass before you know it,” he said reassuringly.
Maria tossed her head impatiently and turned to the door.
“Bye. And congratulations,” Cynthia said.
“Thanks a lot,” Maria replied as she left and brushed past the nuns who bustled to catch up with her.
*
While sipping complimentary champagne on the flight to Denver, Marc leaned over to Cynthia and looked over the top of his dark glasses. “Actually, I’m used to having my own private jet,” he teased.
“Sorry,” she smiled back. “I thought first class would suffice, especially since you’re not paying.”
“Oh, I’ll make an exception,” he continued, “because we’ve known each other so long.”
The flight attendant approached and stooped down to Marc’s level, managing to brush her breast against his shoulder in the process. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Doctor Solovino, but would you mind terribly giving an autograph? My mother’s a huge fan of yours and it would mean so much to her.”
“Not at all” he smiled back and took the in-flight magazine from her.
“How’d you recognize me?”
“The agent told me you’d be on board. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I’m getting used to it,” he said in a tolerant tone, cloaking his true pleasure at displaying his newfound fame to Cynthia. “What’s your mother’s name?”
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