"We got that from the British," snarled Darrow, then objected to Shakespeare's writing a legal brief because he had no law degree. This sent the Guild Masters scurrying for a lawyer equal to Darrow's skills. They settled on Portia, because Shakespeare knew her so well, and, if only for appearances, deliberated the issue of the composition of the Tribunal for a week thereby giving Darrow additional time to prepare his case.
As expected, the Guild Masters maintained jurisdiction over the subject matter. After much ceremony, they announced Picasso, Botticelli, and DaVinci would hear the case and Picasso would be the chairman and conduct the inquest process.
"Must have smartened up and got someone to advise them on the finer points of strategy," Darrow told Death, Stoker, and Angelico at their brainstorming session at the Fortress. Death sat at the head of the table, flanked by the others, but his eyes were riveted on Darrow as he scanned a stack of papers resting in front of him. "Michelangelo recused himself because of his prior hostility to Raphael. Hmmm, the Guild Masters have lowered their standard of proof from beyond a reasonable doubt and preponderance of evidence to more than likely."
"Is that good for our side?" Stoker said.
Darrow looked up from his papers, "No, it means they have an easier burden of proof to convict. But it doesn't matter because we're going to change the issue. According to the paperwork, Charles’ position is that Raphael's decision to take on another human identity is a de facto abandonment of his Guardian status."
"It isn't?" Death said.
"Hell, no. It's an exercise of discretion—a discretion he's entitled to." Darrow noted the looks the men at the table exchanged that said the definition of discretion eluded them. "You fellas don't know too much about the finer points of administration, do you? People who work for the government have a lot of wiggle room to do their jobs."
"We turn to the philosophers when there’s a question, " Death said.
"Good, because that's just where we're headed with Raphael," Darrow said. "If the discretion argument doesn't work, we'll rely Mahavira."
When Darrow left, Angelico left too with a passionate promise to pray for guidance, while Stoker sat staring into the fire. A plague of consternation seemed to have descended upon the Sprit World. Death noticed it everywhere, as though spirits no longer experienced peace or purpose even though their burdens had been cast off with their flesh. Pre-Rapture was working out time, it was true, but there was a restlessness that all brought back from the modern world when they had occasion to revisit the living— Raphael voiced it often, Charles had told him with derision. Death had dismissed Charles' complaining as much as Raphael's, chalking up their cluck-clucking to differences in temperament. But now, seeing Stoker's eyes so trained on the flames as though seeking enlightenment, it gave Death pause.
"What is it, Bram Stoker, that claims your attention? Or has the fire hypnotized you?"
Stoker spoke without diverting his gaze. "This Darrow was born just ten years after myself, yet it seems as though a century after. How can it be that a decade bring such changes in apprehension? I wrote of the change myself, the denial of the supernatural, yet I still do not understand from whence it comes. It baffles me. Fascinates me."
"Stand by me," Death commanded, and Stoker rose from his chair and came close to Death. He felt a gentle hand wrap around his arm, and instantly the two of them were in a chamber wherein men in white hose, breeches and morning coats pored over a document, each one in turn, signing his name at the bottom.
"Where are we?" Stoker said.
"Philadelphia," Death answered. "Here you may find some answers—this is where Darrow hails from, really, though his body was born in Ohio. His spirit was fashioned here."
"Where is here?" Stoker said. "I do not recognize this place."
"It’s Independence Hall. The men are signing a declaration of independence—asserting their God-given rights. Not even the mightiest of Spirits grasped what it meant at the time, least of all Time and Fate. Not even I."
Stoker came nearer the table and watched as more men came forward and signed. "The blot heard round the world," he said as each signature was carefully dabbed with absorbent paper. "So these are the men who disposed of monarchy."
"They separated a nation from more than just a king. For good or ill, Darrow is more than a modern man. He’s an American."
Now back at the Fortress, the two Spirits resumed their places at the long table and contemplated their brimming goblets. "Perhaps," Stoker ventured, "it is good that Raphael lives as a modern man for a time. How much greater will his understanding be of the Spirits that come here from his new world. He will be able to speak their language as well as the eternal truths."
"Bittersweet wine for all Eternals," Death said, "if Raphael bring them another new perspective."
Trickery
Alby rose at 6 AM, emptied his bladder, put on his robe and slippers, and went downstairs to start the coffee. Maddie emerged from her bedroom, freshly showered and detailed. By seven, she was fed, clothed, and, like a soldier, marching out the door to do battle with ignorance, leaving him to his work. And work it was. Routine. Full of phone calls and meetings with Cupertino who he’d come to rely on for marketing his photographs, full of customers, interviewers, and full of aspiring artists whose scripts he knew by rote.
“What was your inspiration for ____________?” Fill in the blank. “Why did you switch from oils to photography?” Fill in the blank. He wished he could fill in the blanks of his corpus labori, and honestly say, “ I don’t know” and end the silly interrogations instead of playing the lofty idealist. “An artist must reach deep inside himself to find that voice,” he’d say when the truth was he’d forgotten what he never knew. Visions came and the visions left. Maybe it was the case he was a mediocre talent, the necessary fool-tool-toy of ghosts. Maybe that was his burden—he revealed other peoples’ inner truths because he had none of his own.
Since Angelo’s return home a year ago, midst tears and apologies, with a translated letter telling Mrs. Ballesteros there was a trust fund for Angelo’s education, the burden of life’s unfairness had faded from their familial memory. The Children were settled into their respective boarding preps: Elise at Our Lady of Good Hope Academy and David at Brown Military. The Wife concentrated on fund raising for Our Lady of Angels Church, and that merry-mother-go-round of ‘meeting students needs’ euphemistically referred to as education, and he moped about his studio, intermittently donning his Armani tuxedo to shake hands with adoring rich faux-friends.
He forced himself to shower and dress to look the part of Successful Businessman when he wanted to put on cut-offs and t-shirt and brood at the beach house. From his studio window, he saw a car pull into the driveway. Kellan. Great. The Wife was by-passing small arms suggestions he see Dr. Vansandt for anti-depressants and going straight to the heavy artillery: the Priest.
“Maddie said you might give me and Rice a hand with the sanctuary floor today,” Kellan said with a smile as glaring as the sun. If he’d parked his car in the garage, he could have pretended to be gone. Now, Kellan had invaded the kitchen. “Is that fresh coffee I smell?” The Priest pointed to the steaming Mr. Coffee machine—the modern version of the Inquisitor’s ruse that first put his victim at ease before skewering him.
“Maddie’s hazelnut and chocolate velvet blend. Help yourself.” He’d stopped short of an invitation; offering to share a cup of Joe was like asking Torquemada to nose around one’s business. “What could possibly go wrong with marble? Sweep it, run a wet mop over it, and you’re done, right?”
“Wrong. Imagine the Pieta constantly being rubbed with sandpaper. That’s what our shoes are like.” The Priest knew where the coffee cups were, poured himself a mug full, and took a sip. “Strong.”
“Yeah, Maddie says I’m a barbarian.”
The Priest headed for the refrigerator. He knew there was half-n-half in there, intimate knowledge gleaned from afternoon counseling sessions that once only took pl
ace in the privacy of the confessional. He could remember a time when no Priest would talk Godspeak alone in a house with a married woman. “You can reassure me Maddie’s not taking medicine’s failure as a personal one. It’s tempting to blame ourselves in anger when our prayers are answered in the negative. She shouldn’t feel guilty about being sighted. Much as she’d like to help Angelo carry his cross, she has her own to bear. I never did like weak coffee.”
That meant a second cup at least. “She’s okay. What’s with the marble?”
“Monsignor thinks a polymer coat can protect it. There’s a local flooring company that’s got a swell product, but their labor rates! So, we’ll sand and polish and spread this stuff on the floor ourselves. Except Monsignor is no spring chicken.” He held up his coffee cup with one hand and a spoon with the other. “Floor. Poor. Floor. Poor,” he said, see-sawing them in the air. “That’s where you come in. You’re a skilled workman.”
“How much does the company want?” He couldn’t drive a nail straight or change a light bulb, and the thought of chatting with holy people as they discovered his ineptitude made him think of bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails. He busied himself with throwing out the now-empty carton of half-n-half so the Priest wouldn’t see him shudder.
“With the discount? Twenty-five hundred. And they’ll give us a six-foot “T” runner from the rail to the altar to protect the traffic areas for another five hundred. They said they could match the color of our old carpet, but that’s a big question mark. Great, hunh?”
Next to his keys on the counter was a signed offer of two hundred thousand dollars from Baron Manstein for the Via Dolorosa—Cupertino’s not-so-secret bidder. “Yeah, sounds like a great deal.” This had to be the Wife’s doing, catching him off guard. Working together has intrinsic value. Synergy produces solidarity. He could hear her social science blather in the background, obnoxious as elevator music. “How much to do the whole church? I assume they won’t be able to match the color of an eighty year old carpet.”
Kellan scratched his chin. “Gee, I don’t know. Narthex included? Twelve thousand four hundred thirty one dollars and twenty-two cents. Of course, we couldn’t raise that kind of money if we had a million bake sales. It’d take an inspired donor to cough up that kind’a cash.”
The Priest went back to the refrigerator for another carton of half-n-half. He was a cagy cleric with a nifty gift for vocabulary—a soft touch was now an inspired donor. He could imagine Kellan trying to convince Luther an indulgence was only an insurance policy . “Suppose a donor was only half inspired. Could bake sales cover the other half?”
“Not by Christmas.” The shark was already spilling over with holiday cheer, caused, no doubt, by the smell of green in the water.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Alby said, and went to his desk. “Can I at least choose the color of the carpet?” he said as he handed Kellan a check for fifteen thousand and twenty-two cents. There were always cost overruns. He’d explain that to his accountant.
Kellan raised his eyes heavenward, “Thank-you, Jesus, for inspiring such generosity in your faithful servant.” He folded the check and put it in his wallet. “Only if you choose red. Monsignor’s from Cincinnati.” He took a roll of Tums from his pocket and popped one into his mouth. The Priest might like strong coffee, but it obviously didn’t like him. “You’re dressed for a meeting.”
“My agent. Eleven o’clock.”
“Well, I’d better leave before you change your mind.” Alby watched the Priest go to his car. If he’d been born a girl, he’d have been skipping, heartburn and all. All he got was a good-bye wave and the promise of a plaque next to the statue St. Joseph the Workman.
Alby went back to his studio and sat at his easel, a blank canvass staring at him, daring him to defile its pristine emptiness. Trust funds. Discussion of unfulfilled prayers. Donations to the Church. Maybe he was having a mid-life crisis. He picked up a sketch pencil and held it in front of him, took a pen from his breast pocket and weighed them in the air on an invisible scale. Art. Business. Art. Business. The pen dropped to the floor as he felt a surge of camaraderie travel up his arm from the pencil. This was a familiar tool. Was it coffee jitters or was the pencil dancing in his fingers? “There’s a picture inside me,” he said in a desperate squeaky little voice. “Let me out. Let me out. Like a good Boy Scout.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he saw the rough outline of shapes in perspective.
At eleven fifteen the phone rang, but Alby didn’t hear it. A portrait was emerging on the canvass—a portrait he called Angelo’s Eyes—a picture of a child stretching out his hand, unknowingly reaching out to the muzzle of a great translucent black stallion who genuflected before him as a young blond man in a black robe lined with red satin looked on with angelic concern.
Maddie found him at noon, sitting before the canvass, munching potato chips and mixing his oils. “Genius can’t be put back into the bottle,” Paulo had said. No, but it can be smothered with banality and domesticity. She closed the door. Whoever or whatever brought him inspiration no longer mattered. He could see again sans camera lens.
****
"When Cupertino couldn’t reach Albion, we’d thought he’d changed his mind about selling the Dolorosa.” Baron Manstein poured pale pink champagne into Maddie’s glass, having dismissed the Hilton waiters upon seeing she had come alone to his suite. “But I’ve watched your husband work and it’s amazing how he shuts out the world. Nothing exists for him except the canvass and paint.”
She hadn’t bothered to tell him about the dinner invitation from Manstein for that very reason. “True indeed,” she said. “Amazing as your kindness and dedication to the arts.” Manstein’s telephone message was still in her purse: Worried about Albion. Can’t reach. Everything OK?
“He hasn’t changed his mind about the photograph, has he?”
“No.”
“Excellent! It may be one of the few the world will ever see if he goes back to oils. Not that I’d lament that, of course. Rare means valuable. Would you rather have dinner in the hotel dining room?”
“After three hours of lecture and office hours, I’d prefer the solace of peace and quiet if you don’t mind.”
“Let’s see what we’re having.” He sprang up from the sofa and went to the white uniformed carts. “Rabbit food. Something that looks like a leg of an Italian chicken drowning in a ketchup pond. And, for desert? Wiggly yellow gelatin smothered in caramel.” He turned to her with a grimaced mouth and crossed eyes. She crossed her eyes and shoved up her nose with her forefinger. “Agreed. There must be a phone book here somewhere.” He returned to the living room with a cell phone at his ear. “Large pepperoni, deep dish. Two liters of Coke Zero. Hilton Hotel Embarcadero. Penthouse Suite 4.” He reached for the champagne bottle. “Anything else, Miss Ambassador?”
“That’ll do it,” she said. Father Kellan’s half-prophetic phone message was still in her purse too: It's a sure thing. Carpet will be laid.
Modern, Civilized Solutions
Kha'zar had no time to admire the good intentions that paved the path to hell. Finding Raphael was just part of the conquest that would curry favor with his Master, and the prospect of reward soothed his wounded chest.
“Hold on,” Iago said as the demon sped through the Hall of the Villains, and Dracula tripped him a quick foot, picked him up by the tail, and dangled him up and down like a yo-yo.
“Let me go, you fool. I’m about the Master’s business,” Kha'zar squealed.
Iago mimicked his plea, then said, “You’ve been ordered to find the Guardian, so you must have news and we must hear it.”
“And how come you by the dent in your breast-bone? Another sojourn in the Spirit World?” Dracula tossed him in the air and he landed with a thud and a cry of pain.
“Credo, the damned horse, crushed me when it knelt before the Ballesteros child.” He massaged his concave chest. "On purpose, I know. I saw Death smile when the beast pinned me.”
The villains exchanged insightful glances, and burst out laughing. Iago scooped up Kha'zar and held him like an infant. “I’ll deliver you myself.”
They found Satan laying with Medusa beside the Lake of Fire, playing with her snakes. They tickled his finger with their bites. “Domestic bliss,” Dracula whispered as the trio approached them. “Your servants have news,” he cried out, and Iago threw Kha'zar to Medusa’s bosom. Satan flung him away.
“He’s found the Guardian, Master,” Dracula said.
Satan grabbed Kha'zar by the throat. The demon patted his hand. “It’s true, Sire. He’s in the flesh and blind.”
Satan guffawed. Medusa slithered into the lake. Her lover could be as cruel in mirth as in anger. “Does the Spirit World know? Death? Charles? The sainted friar?”
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