The Guardian Angel

by George Lazăr

  “Come in, come in!” he heard a man’s voice say. “Come on in!”

  He proceeded hesitantly towards an open door that cut an oblong of reddish light on the other side of the hallway. He went in, gently knocking on the wooden door. The view surprised him: two windows that probably opened onto an inner courtyard poured daylight in the room through the softening filter of once-brown curtains. A crammed bookshelf covered the wall opposite the door, shelves groaning under the weight of ancient volumes, arranged in rows, heedless of size, as if they were frequently taken out and read. A lavish desk with arched legs, a Louis-something, sat in front of the bookcase. He had seen a similar piece at one of the museums Danielle had taken him to. In an armchair, finished in the same French style as the desk, sat a dark-skinned old man with a goatee and white hair, dressed in an elegant suit. He looked at him from behind a pair of frameless glasses that perched on his nose. It seemed more like a lawyer’s office than a fortuneteller’s. A triangular prism nameplate on his desk revealed his identity – Dr. Yole Jeniko.

  “Please, sit down, sir! Welcome! I am sure I can be of service.”

  The old man extended a wrinkly but warm hand, which Bolden shook, realizing as he did that the man he had addressed him in English from the moment he entered the shop.

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, you Americans, you have a certain… something. A particular mien. After all, you have come to a fortuneteller’s, haven’t you? “

  The old man bid him to sit down on an excellently restored, old-style sofa. Despite its look of impeccable taste, it didn’t turn out to be that comfortable.

  “This doesn’t exactly look like a psychic parlor,” Bolden said, sitting down, crossing his legs and looking around.

  “What did you expect? Stuffed lizards and snake jars? A crystal ball? No, sir, the art of fortune telling has adapted and modernized. We no longer use Ouija boards. I am afraid that, on the other side of the Atlantic, in your country, you are still stuck with the old clichés and Hollywood must play an important role in perpetuating this error.” Bolden fidgeted in his seat, in a useless attempt to find a better position. He cleared his throat. The strange scene – and the Indian-skinned man with the Caucasian features who inhabited it – impressed him,

  “Actually, I have come for this,” he said, producing the black business card and offering it to the fortune-teller. “Did you or anyone else in the business have anything to do with it?”

  The old man lifted his glasses a little and examined the black rectangle. The golden letters glittered when he turned them towards the light.

  “The Guardian Angel” he slowly read. “Yes…”

  He handed the card back.

  “Have you heard of him?” Bolden asked.

  “Who hasn’t? Each of us has one. Don’t children learn little poems and songs about their guardian angel? If I am not mistaken, the belief appeared in the Christian faith around the fifth century. Besides his role as a bodyguard, the Guardian Angel delivers to God the prayers of the one over whom he watches. But I believe this is not what you wanted to know. It must be something important. You wouldn’t have come to my humble parlor for so simple a thing. You are a rich man, no doubt.”

  “How do you know that?” Bolden asked.

  “It is no mystery. There is a small video camera outside the entrance. The collar of your shirt still has the inner label, and when you leaned over to read the door plate, I saw the size. An American size. In Europe we use other sizes. You are wearing designer clothes and expensive shoes. You haven’t asked me how much I charge. Need I go on? I hope I haven’t disappointed you with my deductions, fit more for a detective than a fortuneteller. Now tell me: what is it that you want?”

  Bolden felt a sudden desire to get up and leave immediately. He stood abruptly, but instead of leaving he removed the black envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk, then returned to the uncomfortable sofa.

  “The card arrived in that envelope. You will understand my interest when you read the line below my name.”

  Jeniko examined the envelope more carefully than he had done with the black card, dwelling on the dates for a long time. Finally, he carefully placed it on the desk again, as if the envelope were fragile.

  “Mr. Bolden…,” the old man read, keeping the envelope at a fair distance from his aged eyes. “You are the Bolden, the one from America? The one with the space garbage?”

  Usually he avoided mass-media exposure and shunned the press, which had fallen in love with the nickname People magazine had selected for him – The Cosmic Garbageman. Consequently, some Americans knew his name, but few recognized his face. It never occurred to him that his undesired celebrity had crossed the ocean.

  “Yes, of course,” the fortune teller continued, seeing he got no answer. “I should have recognized you. I am sorry! I am no longer up to date with who’s who.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Bolden reassured him, feeling embarrassed.

  “As you probably know very well,” the old man proceeded, “the Guardian Angels are an organization in your country that patrols the subways and dangerous neighborhoods, unarmed, to prevent violence. I know of another guardian angel that is, actually, a computer science project belonging to MIT, something with a children’s organization. Though, I believe you also want to know about…”

  The old man got up and searched for a book in the shelves behind him. Finding it after some deliberation, he quickly leafed through it until he got to a particular page and began reading along a line traced by his finger. He sat back down and spoke without lifting his eyes from the text.

  “In history, there have been many, more or less secret, organizations bearing that name. During the Middle Ages, almost every king had guardian angels – in fact, very reliable, elite troops. The freemasons had or still have guardian angels, in at least one of their branches, except they give this symbol a totally different meaning: the angels represent the guardians of the true faith, a duty they sometimes fulfill mercilessly. But, to give you an answer, I assure you that no one in our trade – and, believe me, I know everyone – sent you that envelope. No, sir, I am sorry, I do not think I can help you. I don’t know who could have possibly sent you something like that, although I think I can imagine the reason.”

  “The reason? Doesn’t it look like a threat to you?”

  The old man thought about it for a few moments.

  “Well, yes, if you mean that the envelope has the date of your supposed death on it. Namely, tomorrow. You are a very rich man, Mr. Bolden. Many would like to blackmail you for money. It could be something like that, in which case you should immediately go to the police. Only I do not believe that. As you can see, there is nothing to suggest this has something to do with a financial demand. It seems more likely to me that this is a way of telling you there is someone watching over you. I have a feeling this won’t be the last of this Guardian Angel. You will hear of it again quite soon. It might have something to do with predeterminism.”

  “Predeterminism?” Bolden frowned.

  “A widespread philosophical concept. Our existence is driven by the deity and our lives unfold between the boundaries of birth and death. Perhaps there is the possibility you might die on the date written on the envelope and this Guardian Angel of yours will somehow intervene. Actually, he already has, by sending you this message. You should be very careful what you do tomorrow. You are in grave danger and he has warned you about it. This is how I see things.”

  “I think that is enough,” Bolden said and prepared to leave. “I am sorry, but I don’t believe in such things. I still think someone made a very bad joke.”

  He drew a five hundred euro bill from his wallet, got up and placed it on the desk.

  The old man rose too.

  “That is very generous of you. So, since you are here, why don’t you let me do my job and read your palm? Please, sit down!” he said, a hand gently pressing Bolden’s shoulder.

  Bolden sat back
down on the sofa. The old man sat beside him, took his left hand and turned it with the palm facing upwards.

  “There is no need,” Bolden objected weakly, but the old man gently hushed him as if calming a small child.

  “Why do you think there is no one in the waiting room? I always work with appointments. And yet today I felt that I was going to have a special client. I have been waiting for you, although I did not know you were going to be the one. Let me look at your palm. We might find out the answer you have wanted to know so badly.”

  Bolden faintly tried to pull his hand away but Jeniko held it with a gentle grip, talking while he examined his palm.

  “I did my PhD in History. Wrote my thesis on ‘The role of pseudosciences in the evolution of the feudal world.’ During my research, I started to notice things. Clues. Bits of evidence that could lead a person to believe that these so-called pseudosciences aren’t all driveling nonsense. Few people realize the extent to which these things have shaped history. Wars have started and stopped because of fortunetellers and wizards, and not just in ancient times. Hitler had a personal astrologist. The hostilities in the Balkans, today, are likely directed by similar advice. You have heard about the recent outbreak of violence in the countries detached from the former Yugoslavia, yes?”

  Bolden shrugged his shoulders. He had not, and wasn’t really sure that he could pinpoint the former Yugoslavia on a map.

  “Chiromancy, with its various names, has been practiced in India for more than five millennia,” the old man continued. “In China, it is more recent. Only has 3,000 years.” He paused, cocking his head slightly. “You have a very interesting palm, Mr. Bolden.”

  Ian found the conversation annoying. “You know, I really don’t believe in these things. I came to you for something else.”

  “I know, I know, so you’ve said. You are not my first skeptic. And nowadays, when everything is about computers and computer programs, you certainly won’t be the last. Even so, please give me a little credit. Here: this is your heart line, and I am afraid it shows that you will soon suffer a loss, something that will greatly affect your feelings. However, there is also good news. See how your head line stretches? You’ll become even richer. A lot richer, in fact. But your life line is strange. Look, here it is, this arch, widely circling your thumb. I have never seen one like yours. It is discontinued in various places.”

  Jeniko fell silent for a few moments, studying Bolden’s palm, deep in thought. He gently tapped it with his index finger.

  “This is where you might find your answer, Mr. Bolden. I think this is where your guardian angel comes in. I can tell you it is somehow connected with your business, but I can’t quite figure out how.”

  Bolden drew back his hand abruptly.

  “Are you insinuating that the envelope might come from a business competitor? It’s only a transportation business, like many others. The Space Elevator has enough capacity to carry any load, for anyone. It is not…”

  Bolden stopped in mid-sentence, realizing that – against his will – he had been drawn into the old man’s game, filling in the blanks in the fortune-teller’s general statements with his own speculation. A classic trick.

  “I think this is enough,” he said flatly.

  Jeniko’s words didn’t offer much in the way of a cohesive story, although Bolden instinctively looked for the connections to his life. Yes, he was rich, and his fortune was growing anyway. His relationship with Danielle couldn’t get any better. He hadn’t the slightest intention to stray and the woman seemed intent on settling down with him. The old man was a strange fortune teller.

  He rose to leave, and the old man saw him to the door, walking in small steps. He pressed a hidden button and the magnetic bolt buzzed open, freeing the door. Bolden wanted to say something, but gave up. Thanking the old man seemed inappropriate. He looked left and right, checking the street, a bit embarrassed by the prospect of being spotted by anyone he might know. The street was filled with the usual tourists, most of them Asian, happily taking photos and videos. No one seemed to notice him, and he relaxed a bit.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Bolden. You will make the best decision, when the time comes. You can be sure of that,” the old man said politely before quietly closing the door behind him. “Yes, you can be sure of that…”

  Bolden stood motionless for a few moments, pondering those parting words, then gave up with a discontented toss of his hand. He departed without a backward glance, and without noticing that there had been no clank of the magnetic door bolt behind him. Neither did he notice the eyes of the palmist, peering curiously through the opening of the door, still slightly ajar.

  Chapter 3

  As a movie viewer, Bolden had taken part in dozens – perhaps hundreds – of bank robberies. Some were brutish, carried out by Wild West gunmen. Others were sophisticated jobs, involving sewer networks, bribes, schematics and cutting-edge technology. It never occurred to him that he could be caught up in an actual robbery, committed in the most classic of ways, by masked thieves firing automatic weapons.

  He was in the office with the glass wall, which opened towards the great hall of the Parisian branch of Ameribank, arranging a somewhat large transfer. He was buying another property – a quiet estate this time, with a few thousand acres of vineyard and a private landing strip. He had decided to remain in France, with Danielle, for as long as his business allowed.

  The bank’s manager waited personally for Bolden at the door to his office, asking polite and formal question about his business as they took their seats. Bolden was about to give him the usual answer – that space was now cheaper than Earth as a disposal site – when the robbers stormed the bank.

  The sound-absorbing glass of the bank manager’s office muted their shouted instructions – “Nobody move!” first in French, then in English – and the manager, a slim young man with a balding head, looked up more in confusion than alarm in the moment before the two men in ski masks burst through his door.

  “Don’t even think about it!” the first yelled, although the manager’s hand didn’t flinch to press the panic button under the desk. “Open the safe! Right now!”

  The masked man rushed behind the desk, grabbing the manager by the collar, forcing him to his feet and then violently shoving him towards the second attacker, who seized him and pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of his head.

  “You! Come here!” the first man said, pointing his gun at Bolden, who instinctively lifted his hands above his shoulders.

  He got up from the armchair and walking alongside the manager, with the two robbers behind them. They walked through the bank’s main hall, where customers and employees lay flat on the floor with their arms stretched behind their backs and their eyes closed. Bolden noticed two other masked men, and guessed the guttural language they spoke was Russian. One guarded the entrance while the other passed from prisoner to prisoner, tying their hands with white cable ties and putting duct tape over their eyes and mouths. With their captives subdued, the gang member who had just finished tying them up climbed atop a desk to better supervise the area.

  They went behind the teller counter, where another robber was systematically emptying the cashiers’ money cases and dumping the contents into a large, black bag. The robber took a brief look at them, but neither spoke nor interrupted what he was doing.

  “Look, I have money…” Bolden said, but his attempt at a separate negotiation earned him a relatively light blow to the head from the butt of a gun. He staggered, and dizziness swept over him. A second blow followed, this time to his ribs.

  They reached the entrance to the safe room. Only a door of thick, bulletproof glass stood between the robbers and their goal. The safe itself – surprisingly small compared to the size of the room – stood in plain view beyond the glass, flanked by a desk taken up almost entirely by a monitor that displayed nine video surveillance feeds simultaneously.

  His hands shaking, the manager removed an access card from one of his
pockets, then passed it through a scanner. The door opened with a click and they all went in.

  The manager walked towards the safe, closely followed by a gunman. Visibly disturbed by the weapon pressed against his neck, he tapped a code into a keypad, turned the cross-shaped handle and opened the safe.

  In a move he couldn’t explain, Bolden took a step to his left, taking advantage of the fact that the robbers’ attention was directed to the stacks of bills inside the safe.

  He had gotten close enough to the surveillance desk to notice a panic button on the left. Bolden quickly lowered his left hand and pushed it. His movement didn’t go unnoticed. The robber nearest him struck him in the stomach with the butt of his weapon. Bolden doubled over as the pain washed over him, already regretting his useless heroic gesture. He didn’t care about the money in the safe; his fortune well exceeded that sum. He didn’t care too much about the bank’s personnel or those customers lying face-down in the main hall either. On the contrary, at this moment he envied them; they hadn’t done anything stupid, and would likely walk away from this experience unharmed.

  It would have been so much easier if he could have convinced the masked men to negotiate with him. They would have walked away with far more cash than the few measly bills they were about to steal, and he wouldn’t be gasping for breath, his life now hanging by a gunman’s whim. The man who caught him pressing the button shouted something at his helpmates, signaling with two fingers. Although he didn’t understand their language, Bolden could have sworn he had said something like this:

  “This idiot triggered the alarm! We have two minutes left!”