Wara reluctantly muted Noah mid-song and slid her bare feet to the floor. She headed towards the office, where Rupert motioned towards a swivel chair.
“We’ve already covered a few things for your upcoming trip,” he addressed both of them. “And the rest we’ll talk about later, after you’ve had more time. Wara’s flight’s leaving tomorrow, though, so it’s about time to put the finishing touches on her passport. Of course I have to make your docs with different names, since you’re both supposed to be dead. Now,” Rupert fought off a yawn and leaned into the swivel chair with a heavy squeak, “I’ve got you down as Paulo.” He fixed his eyes on Alejo, who grimly nodded. “Paul, the man who, like you, was healed from blindness by God. Now what about you, Wara Cadogan? Are you ready to change names?”
She had known Rupert was going to ask her this; he had warned her at breakfast this morning. After pancakes, she had taken a walk and thought: If Alejo is Paul, then I am Peter.
Once again she had seen Noah beside her on the bus, holding her hand with eyes full of grace and saying those words: You’re back.
At the seaside, after Jesus rose again, he brought Peter back. Peter swore with a curse he didn’t know Jesus and Jesus forgave him. Jesus brought him back.
Unfortunately, Peter was not a good name for women.
Thankfully, Wara knew quite a few languages.
“I’m thinking about…Petra,” she said carefully, trying out the sound of the name on her lips. “You know, Greek for ‘rock’.”
Rupert’s eyes glowed. “It’s good,” he said simply. “I love it.”
The living room was dim as they left Rupert’s office, closing the door on him as he powered up his spy computer to make some Skype calls. A single, white porcelain lamp with a scuffed shade was shining from the corner next to the sofas. Tabor and Sandal were nowhere in sight.
Preferring to say goodnight here rather than in the pitch black hallway on the way to their rooms, Wara turned towards Alejo, the words on her tongue. But Alejo was gone.
Then she noticed him crouching on the floor in front of her, head bowed towards the floor. He was crying.
“Wara,” he said gruffly, “I’m so sorry.” He didn’t remove his gaze from the floor and his hands shook. “I can never pay you for what I did to you. Please, forgive me.”
Wara took an unsteady step back and swallowed hard. Alejo was asking her to forgive him.
I’m Petra now. I’m here because He forgave my huge debt. And now it’s time for me to follow in His footsteps.
The words formed very slowly in her brain. “Alejo, it’s ok,” she said, then slid down to the warm wood floor in front of him. “It’s all taken care of.”
Starting visibly, Alejo lifted his head and peered at her with reddened hazel eyes. “But I can’t…”
“I know. I accept that you can’t pay. I forgive you.”
He let his head roll back towards the ceiling, then faced her again. “Thank you.” He lowered himself down to sit cross-legged as she was, not even bothering to swipe away the raw tears matting his eyelashes. “Thank you.”
She struggled to know what else to say to him. It was one thing to forgive him. Trusting him was quite another.
But what good is forgiveness if it’s only words?
One day at a time. And it had to start somewhere.
There was something she still hadn’t said to him, and it was important.
“Thank you,” she told him honestly, searching his face. “You saved my life. You gave up a lot to save me. Thank you.”
Alejo blinked, then his face found a hint of the famous Martir grin he shared with his father. They sat there staring at each other for a few minutes, letting the moment sink in. Then Alejo broke the silence, voice thick with relief.
“So, we’ll meet in three months, then. You’re going to see your parents?”
Wara paused to consider, then decided to blaze forward. “Yeah. Maybe you can call sometime, just, you know, to make sure that none of the bad guys have hauled me away.” She pressed her lips together and tried to match Alejo’s small smile. “You are going to be pretty hard to get a hold of out here on the farm with Rupert.”
Alejo blinked fast, obviously pleased with her idea.
"Should I give you the phone number to my parents’ house?” she asked.
Now Alejo’s mouth flickered into a full-blown smile.
“Naw. Don’t worry, Wara.” The warm white light of the lamp glinted off his eyes as the two of them sat facing each other, she with a spark of curiosity, he with eyes making a solemn promise. “I’ll find you.”
33
grape
AFTER THE OSTRICHES HAD BEEN FED and all the fences repaired and in working order, Alejo carried a wooden porch chair into the luxuriant grape arbor. He plopped down in the chair, slinging his feet up on an overturned five gallon bucket he left inside the arbor for the times he was too lazy to bring a chair.
It had been two months since Alejo had visited his family in Lima, then flown with them to a medium-sized city in Italy, where they would make their new home. Since he had come back to Rupert’s farm, Alejo had been busy studying the Bible with Rupert and doing odd jobs around the property. Usually he was done feeding the huge birds by about five. It was now winter in Bolivia, leaving him an hour before sundown to sit out here and think.
It was crazy, but a lot of the time he thought about her.
He had talked to Wara a few times at her parents’ house, short, uneventful conversations that still made him really happy. In only three more weeks, he would see her face-to-face, and they would take a trip together to decide if they would work with CI. As to the destination of the trip, Rupert had kept silence, not even wanting to hint.
In reality, there were only nineteen days left until Alejo would talk with Wara in person. Less than three weeks. Alone behind the grapevines, Alejo couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t counted the days a few times.
Besides Wara, no one should have the number of the nondescript little cell phone Alejo carried in his pocket. So when it rang now, he startled. The number wasn’t hers, though. Alejo warily punched the talk button and pressed an ear to the speaker.
“Alejo? Is that you, che?”
The hairs on Alejo’s arm stood on end. “Stalin?”
“Who else? Oh my goodness, it’s been so long!”
Alejo was stunned. “How did you get this number?”
“Relax, che!” Stalin’s tone was not cautious at all. “I’m not with them anymore. I’ve run away, to join the circus, as they say. As to how I got this number---don’t ask. Let’s just say since I’m the only living member of the Prism who knows you’re alive, I’m the only one who thought to have a look around for you.”
“You left the Prism,” Alejo stated warily, crossing one leg over the other on the five gallon bucket.
“Yeah, che, I should have listened to you earlier. After you told me what was going on—about the poor kids being recruited and going over to do holy war—well, I just didn’t feel right. And Gabriel…man, I can’t even talk about that. I still can’t believe Gabo’s gone. But then that day, you know, at Pairumani…” Stalin’s voice cracked and he swore softly. “Alejo, I was a loser and a coward. I just stood there. I let Ishmael shoot my best friend for being an infidel.”
Alejo found himself grinning, despite the contrition in Stalin’s voice. It was so good to hear from a friend. “Yeah, well, there wasn’t much you could do,” Alejo said. “We would have been a pretty pair, both lying there with holes in our heads. You did the right thing in the moment. And from what Wara tells me, you saved my life later, dropping me off at the hospital.” Alejo couldn’t bring himself to mention the fact that Gabriel had also been there.
“Yeah, so what happened to her?” Stalin asked curiously. “She go off back to USAlandia to live happily ever after with some gringo?”
Alejo snorted. “Yeah, something like that. She certainly wasn’t about to stay here with me to live happily eve
r after.”
Stalin may be out of the Prism, but there’s no way he’s going to get any info out of me about Wara.
“So you got out...what about Lázaro and Benjamin?”
“Both sent to another country in South America. They’ll stay out of Bolivia for a while, I assume.”
“And Ishmael?” Alejo asked.
“I have absolutely no idea.” Alejo could picture Stalin shaking his head, scraggly hair dragging over his bulky shoulders. “I hightailed it out of there after we got to Asuncion, and took my parents with me. They’re safely tucked away in Japan…I know you won’t tell.”
The conversation cheered Alejo up more than he could have imagined. Stalin was alive and well, and possibly dining every evening on sushi and rice. Alejo assumed that Ishmael Khan wouldn’t be showing up in Bolivia for some time, after an anonymous call Alejo had made explaining that the Khan Foundation was spiriting away Bolivians to fight as mujahedeen, in the name of scholarships and higher education.
Surprisingly, Stalin kept in touch; a week after his phone call, Alejo’s cell shimmered with the alien sound that announced an arriving text from his old friend.
“Guess where I am?” the little screen read.
Alejo was debating between “Las Vegas” and “Disneyland” when a second wave of sound announced Stalin’s answer. Alejo clicked the sound off and read: “At mass. Yes, that’s right. I’m sitting here in Spain at mass with about five little old ladies.” Then, following quickly, “And they’re all dressed in black. Is that creepy, or what?”
Alejo pulled out the side keyboard, which he had used maybe once, and keyed in, “Despite the creepiness of black, are you finding what you’re looking for?” The image of Stalin, probably dressed in a t-shirt that accented his beer belly and ratty old jeans, kneeling on the thin wooden rail at the back of the cathedral pew was extremely amusing.
It was also fascinating, given the fact that Stalin believed he already knew everything about God and had said he would rather have his carnal pleasures. Alejo was sure the fact that he was nervously repeating mass along with five wrinkly, age-encrusted Spanish women meant that Stalin was rethinking whether he was going to pay the price.
“Not yet…there’s something here, but I still don’t know if I’m ready. But che, I’m thinking about it.”
Another message came. “I was very impressed with you, willing to die for what you believe.” Alejo hoped this was a good sign. “But then again, so was Gabriel,” Stalin added. “I’m still looking, che. God have mercy…he knows I’m looking, but the women here in Spain are so beautiful…”
Alejo typed, “Don’t you want to talk on the phone? My fingers are cramping.”
“Can’t. Time to sing. The priest is giving me the eye. Talk to you later, Alejo.”
Alejo slid his phone back in his pocket with a smile and leaned his head back towards the sunshine.
34
lilac
A COUNTRY HAD NEVER SEEMED SO EMPTY and hollow as Spain did at that moment to Stalin Gomez. While Mom and Dad had their hearts set on a little house in Japan, Stalin had known immediately upon arriving to get them settled in that Japan would never be for him.
“Creepy, very creepy” were the only words that described for him the temples with dull golden statues smiling pacifically at him as he passed. The mélange of slippery sea creatures tacked to wooden planks with wicked looking nails would have been eerie enough at some sort of taxidermy for water creatures display. The fact that it was in a part of the market meant for grocery shopping had given him the heebie-jeebies.
With all the money he had pilfered from his bank account, Stalin bought his parents a three bedroom house in a cozy neighborhood full of foreigners, a shiny silver Lexus, and hired two servants to clean, cook, and fill the house with furniture. Then he had gotten back on the plane to a more pleasant destination, planning on sending his parents tickets to come visit.
They weren’t that old yet, after all.
Spain seemed like a perfect pick to settle down and hide. It was warm, they spoke Spanish, and rumors were that bathing was topless.
At first, the city of Cordoba, where Stalin had rented a nice flat, had seemed very cosmopolitan and smacked of Europe. All the excitement soon died away as he found himself lumbering down the gray sidewalks day after day, with no job, no steady girlfriend, and no friends to speak of.
The conversation he had with Alejo that day in the coffee shop about Jesus kept ringing in Stalin’s ears, ever since he had realized that for Alejo, the whole Jesus thing was more than just an intellectual debate about which religion was right. The exact moment Stalin had realized this had been when Alejo didn’t flinch with a gun to his head and had said he wouldn’t change his mind about Jesus being God.
That had been a very, very heavy day.
Today, Stalin’s heart felt heavy as well, and as he left the massive cathedral where he had been at mass he bought a strawberry ice cream cone from a vendor on the sidewalk. Then he turned down one of the ancient, narrow side streets to meander his way in the general direction of home. There really was no hurry; in Spain, no one went to bed before midnight, and at the moment it was just after seven. Stalin took a large lick of the sickly-sweet ice cream, the tried to clean a sticky drop of pink off his lips with the paper-thin napkin wrapped around his cone.
All of a sudden, he stopped, eyes falling upon a little sign with a picture of a white dove that said Libreria La Paz. Below, in smaller letters, it said, “Libreria evangelica”.
A Christian bookstore. And a non-Catholic one.
Something about the store drew Stalin towards its rugged stone steps like a piece of lint up the funnel of a vacuum cleaner, but he hesitated. He imagined himself walking into that store to browse books and finding himself swarmed by a pack of hunchbacked crones in black dresses and head coverings, who would then drag him over to a gold-crowned image of the Virgin and force him to recite the rosary until he was born again.
The glass door squeaked quietly and a little girl wearing a hot pink short set skipped down the steps, followed by a middle-aged guy in a polo shirt who could have been her father.
There you go…people younger than eighty come to this store. Maybe it has something for me.
Realizing he had been holding his breath, Stalin drew in a gust of air and then nearly shrieked, feeling the cold drip of melting ice cream soak his fingers. He hurriedly licked all the way around the cold cone, then each finger one by one, glancing around guiltily to see if anyone was watching. Finally, Stalin pulled himself together and clumped up the stairs to the bookstore, some part of him praying to God that there would be some books here worth reading that could explain to him more about what it was that wouldn’t let him just put Jesus at the back of his mind.
A bell over the door jangled softly as Stalin entered, and he was relieved when the man behind the counter only waved politely at him, then turned away to let the customer browse the shop in peace.
It was a small bookstore, with white wooden shelves filled with different titles lining the walls and a small section for music and t-shirts. Ignoring everything but the books, Stalin began at one end, noticing right away that the volumes seemed to be rather thin. Remembering to keep up on licking his ice cream so it wouldn’t flood the bookstore’s red carpet, Stalin cocked his head sideways to better scan the titles, getting more disgruntled as he went along.
In one section, he found books with titles such as “A New You in Forty Days!”, “God Can Control Your Diet”, and “Exercising for Jesus”. Puzzled, he moved on to the next rows of books and saw several covers featuring blown-up photos of people with white smiles with flashy clothes. “God Wants You to be Rich!” proclaimed one book with the image of a slick Hispanic man in an expensive purple suit. Stalin’s brows drew together as he read, “The Ten-Day Plan to Secure Wealth” and “Plant the Seed and It Will Grow”.
A thin rivulet of strawberry ice cream escaped down the side of Stalin’s cone and over h
is hand, splatting onto the carpet below. A curse was on the tip of Stalin’s tongue, until he remembered where he was and gulped, glancing over at the man behind the counter. Seeing the guy safely reading, paying no attention to Stalin soiling his store and cussing, Stalin turned back to the books, pretty confused.
He had studied Christianity in depth during his masters and PhD, of course, along with all the other religions. They may not have been the most exciting reading in the world, but he remembered a plethora of thick volumes about theology and Christian thought. Those books were not just a little weighty; they were the kind you could use for weight-lifting around the house, if you ever did such a thing.
Where were those kinds of books here? The shiny books Stalin saw lined up around this bookstore seemed to be about anything except Christianity. Wasn’t there anything here that just told about Jesus?
Plop!
Stalin stared in horror as the mushy pink mound that was left on top of his cone slid onto the floor with one fluid motion, falling with a soundless whoosh onto the cherry red carpet. Now he did swear, albeit under his breath, then jerked his head up as he heard a soft chuckle, coming from nearby.
Spiky, white high heels turned into long legs, then a flowery skirt and a tight, lilac-colored jacket. In front of Stalin stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and that was saying a lot. Her hair fell to her waist, and was chestnut brown with shimmers of red. With twinkling eyes, the woman was regarding Stalin with amusement: first his face, which he intuited must be a shade between lobster and beet red, and then the flattened pile of melting ice cream staining the carpet.
“Too hot for ice cream today,” she remarked, and then twisted her waist gracefully to pull a packet of tissues out of her purse. “Don’t worry; this carpet is so worn no one will ever notice.”
And just like that, she scooped up the fallen ice cream with a wad of tissues and tossed it into a trash can standing against a pillar in the middle of the small room. Stalin felt his mouth hang open as she raised her hand and he saw long, perfectly-manicured nails painted lilac and silver.
Prism Page 25