All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  He held her close as they walked to the door and she kissed him before she went inside.

  *

  The summer was passing and the trees along the Tiber had begun to yellow. The days were still hot and thronged with tourists but the evenings were beginning to cool. Those who could afford to leave the heat of the city were returning, and life would go on as it had for thousands of years. But the world outside was about to be changed forever, and in the middle of Ludi Romani, when the ancients had honored the king of the gods, death came swooping from the skies.

  Even though the voices in his dreams had been warning him for a few nights, John was horrified and couldn’t turn away. No one could as the tower blazed and burnt. And then, as CNN showed the second plane glide in, almost serenely, and strike the second tower, it all came flooding back.

  **

  They were coming home from church, almost gliding along in the big old Buick with the gleaming white-wall tires. They had prayed for peace, and while his mother was content with that, his father had the radio on low. He had been following Hitler’s panzers as they rolled across the steppes of Russia, inching closer and closer to Moscow. “It will all be over by Christmas,” he assured them, regardless of the irony. He was no fan of the Nazis; he just didn’t want his country involved again.

  “I hope so. You don’t think we’ll get dragged into it?”

  “Why would we? We have oceans between us.”

  His mother seemed assured and went back to checking things off her list. Every Christmas she gathered the hats, mitts, and scarves the congregation gave to the poor and needy and brought them home to wrap in bright, shiny paper. His father contributed too, and made sure every package had a little toy because the children’s smile would help to warm their parents’ hearts. He smiled at her and turned the radio up a touch. Just in time to hear that Japanese planes had attacked American ships in Hawaii. It all seemed so unreal at first, but as they spent the rest of the day wrapping gifts, the news grew worse and worse.

  “It will mean war, won’t it?” His mother was frightened and looked to his father.

  It almost broke her heart when John signed up. “It is not for a Christian to go out and seek revenge,” she reminded him with a tone of resignation. His father was against it, too, but understood and drove him to the recruitment office in the grand old Buick with the spotless white-walls. They sat for a moment as they watched the lines of indignant men shuffle forward, impatient but jovial—as if they were going on a grand adventure.

  “I will give you my blessing for what it’s worth, but I cannot claim to be happy about this.”

  His father had always been cautious about anger, believing it was a sin against the love of God. He had wanted John to finish his education and join the family business. “You are going to join a war that might cost you your life—or worse, your soul.”

  ***

  When he’d had enough of the hours and hours of repetition, of expert rumors and panelist’s conjecture, and the constant rerunning of the images of dust-covered New Yorkers wandering through a moonscape, and the towers exploding, over and over, John turned it off and went outside. He hesitated at the door but he had to go out. He had to walk by the Tiber and gather his thoughts. Life would never be the same, so he may as well get used to it. Everyone would have to. They would have to find their way through the shock of it all. War hadn’t visited the American homeland in so long. They had been exporting it for years and now it had come back to them.

  There would be a period of mourning. Flags would fly at half-mast and politicians would line up for their chance to step into the spotlight of history. But in time that would give way to anger and from there revenge was just a stone’s throw away. He had seen it all before. He had been part of it then and he was part of it now, even from his exile. He was still at heart an American but he was also a Christian, and Jesus had been explicit: love your enemies.

  The river ran deep and dark, but ripples flared where the lights of the city reflected, red and yellow like little fires. Even Rome, that had seen so much more, was nervous as night fell, and John walked back toward the only place he was sure of finding peace, in Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte, in the company of the dead. They were whispering as he entered: The city to which the whole world fell has fallen. If Rome can perish, what can be safe?

  John Melchor knelt as he had not knelt in years, as a true and humble penitent, and let the cloak of arrogance slip from his shoulders and shatter on the stone floor. He freed his heart from dogma and cried without restraint. He, who should have known better, and still professed a certainty about what Christ had said, had once let loose the fires of death from the skies. Yes they had been at war—a war they hadn’t started. And yes, terrible things had to be done in wars; but that night, above the wooden houses of Tokyo, he saw the face of Satan in the billowing fireball below.

  He saw him many times in the darkness that followed that night in San Salvador, and he had seen him again in the billowing black smoke of the twin towers.

  “Blessed be the Lord, for he showed his wonderful love to me when I was in a besieged city,” he remembered from the pages of Psalms that fluttered through his mind. He said it more in hope than conviction. He had become a Jesuit to silence the demonic guilt that met him at the gates when he was discharged back into a world where murder was still a crime. While much of the class of ‘45 simply got on with life, there were many like him. The war had taken away everything they used to be.

  He tried to go back but he couldn’t. His parents did all they could to recreate the innocence that had been shattered but that just made things worse. He spent his days on the veranda staring off into the depths of his soul, black and tarnished now. And at night he dreamed he was back in the plane, hunched over his bomb sights. And each night, when his target was aligned, he dropped his bombs on his father’s house. He’d squirm and thrash about but he couldn’t wake until he had watched his father and his mother turn to ash and blow away.

  For a while he found some solace in the local bars where he was treated as the returned hero and plied with whiskey. Night after night he would drink until he was oblivious. Only then could he go home and collapse upon his bed. By the summer of ‘46, his father had had enough and took him aside.

  “I can’t claim to understand what you’re going through but I can’t sit back and watch anymore. Your mother and I have talked and we both feel it would be best if you took some time to travel. You could go in search of whatever it is you’ve lost.”

  “Do you think it can be found again?”

  “Perhaps, or maybe you’ll find something better.”

  “What do you think it is that I’ve lost?”

  “Your soul. I warned you this might happen and now that it has I take no pleasure in being right. But have courage, son. You are not the first person to be lost in war only to find a better purpose.”

  “I wish I could believe that. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because your mother and I still believe in you.”

  **

  So John Melchor wandered in the wilderness for a while, drifting down the west coast seeking reaffirmation in anything that opposed what he had once believed. In time he crossed the border while the rumblings of the next war began, but the burning women and children of Tokyo followed and waited by his bedside, or wherever he had passed out after another day of mescaline and tequila.

  It took time but he made his way through it. The discipline of the air force proved useful as he rebuilt himself in the manner of Ignatius of Loyola, who had also suffered in battle. Retreating when he lost his way and practicing the Spiritual Exercises the Spanish prince had left them, John re-emerged into the world full of reformed zeal. And when the tremors of the world threatened to shake him off his new pedestal, he found strength and balance in the pages of De Civitate Dei contra Paganos, The City of God against the Pagans, Sain
t Augustine’s words of calm to the bewildered survivors after Alaric sacked the Eternal City. And they guided John through all that followed when once again he became a mercenary in the never-ending war between the cities of God and Man. He used his collar in Chicago and San Salvador, fingering it as he made the rounds of the rich and liberally minded. Shaming them into supporting the poor and downtrodden, preaching like a Manichean as he went:

  These are the considerations which one must keep in view, that he may answer the question whether any evil happens to the faithful and godly which cannot be turned to profit.

  He needed the words of the bishop of Hippo again as all that he had been in the City of Man ached for his fellow Americans.

  And that you are yet alive is due to God, who spares you that you may be admonished to repent and reform your lives. It is He who has permitted you, ungrateful as you are, to escape the sword of the enemy, by calling yourselves His servants, or by finding asylum in the sacred places of the martyrs.

  Despite the eyes of the dead, John Melchor cried again and searched the shadows for peace.

  But the peace which we enjoy in this life, whether common to all or peculiar to ourselves, is rather the solace of our misery than the positive enjoyment of felicity. Our very righteousness, too, though true in so far as it has respect to the true good, is yet in this life of such a kind that it consists rather in the remission of sins than in the perfecting of virtues. Witness the prayer of the whole city of God in its pilgrim state, for it cries to God by the mouth of all its members, “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”

  As the shadows flickered, the dead of Tokyo slowly gathered around the altar. They did not speak; they didn’t have to. They stood in silence behind their Noh masks and condemned him. He had made so many promises to them. He had sworn to spend his life ensuring that what had happened to them would never happen to anyone again.

  One by one they stepped forward and removed their masks so he could see their faces, twisted in pain as they slowly turned to ash and settled to the floor.

  “‘The sins of men and angels,’” John prayed in earnest,

  do nothing to impede the great works of the Lord which accomplish His will. For He who by His providence and omnipotence distributes to everyone his own portion, is able to make good use not only of the good, but also of the wicked.

  The last shadow removed his mask and smiled.

  But not even the saints and faithful worshippers of the one true and most high God are safe from the manifold temptations and deceits of the demons. For in this abode of weakness, and in these wicked days, this state of anxiety has also its use, stimulating us to seek with keener longing for that security where peace is complete and unassailable.

  John knew him well. He was the devil he had seen so many times before. Not the devil of imagination, horned and hideous. This devil wore a suit and a shy smile. He spoke so reasonably, quoting Augustine as if he had inspired him.

  For even they who make war desire nothing but victory—desire, that is to say, to attain to peace with glory. For what else is victory than the conquest of those who resist us? And when this is done there is peace. It is therefore with the desire for peace that wars are waged, even by those who take pleasure in exercising their warlike nature in command and battle. And hence it is obvious that peace is the end sought for by war.

  “I can never accept that,” John said as determinedly as he could. But his voice wavered. “I will never accept you.”

  “But you already have. You know in your heart that the gods of man are the true devils. You know what will happen next. We will have another bloody crusade to honor your gods.

  How much more powerfully do the laws of man’s nature move him to hold fellowship and maintain peace with all men so far as in him lies, since even wicked men wage war to maintain the peace of their own circle, and wish that, if possible, all men belonged to them, that all men and things might serve but one head, and might, either through love or fear, yield themselves to peace with him!

  “Come with me, John, and renounce the great lie of peace. You know it is beyond your kind.”

  *

  “We should fight them over there so we don’t have to fight them here,” everyone agreed as they sat around the office waiting until it was time to go home. “We have to protect our way of life.”

  Danny just shook his head and walked away. The war drums were pounding and everyone around him was falling into step. The armies of the West were getting ready to avenge the dead, killed by those who hated freedom and democracy. He had heard it all before. It was the same language he’d heard growing up when the people of Derry were set upon. He knew better then and he knew better now. The world he had to find peace and serenity in was a mad house—and it was getting worse with each passing year.

  Even guys at the meetings went along with it, except a few of the old-timers who had been to war before—but most people didn’t listen to them. Instead they listened to voices of outrage that dominated the airwaves. They made it all sound so obvious and understandable. They were fighting the good fight against the forces of evil—just as they did in the Bible. Some even went as far as calling it a crusade.

  “Onward Christian soldiers,” Danny hummed to himself as he rose to get his coat and leave. He just wanted to get home and be with Billie. She understood how he felt. She would let him talk and not argue with him.

  That was the big difference between her and Deirdre. Deirdre would have tried to get him to change his way of thinking. She would have said it was for his own good—that going against the flow was one of the things that caused him so much angst. She would have reminded him that he had always been like that.

  She had a point, but her solution was to just try and go along with things. He had tried that, but the longer he was sober the harder that became. How was he supposed to practice rigorous honesty when the whole world was reveling in lies and deceit? How was he supposed to find peace in a world that was spoiling for war?

  “You’re different from them,” Billie had told him. “You’re not able to put your head down and follow along. For better or worse, you’ve seen through the veil.” She was always saying stuff like that and telling him that he had the soul of an artist.

  “Piss artist,” Anto would have said if he were still around. Danny missed him. His mother had phoned and told him what happened in the church in Rome, but Danny didn’t believe it. He didn’t say anything because his mother, and Mrs. Flanagan, needed something to believe in. Everybody did, and lies were far more comforting than the truth.

  Still, he hadn’t heard from Anto since then and that made him stop and wonder.

  Billie said it made sense—that Anto had unfinished business and had now moved on. She was into all that New Age stuff and Danny just smiled and nodded along with her. It made as much sense as all the stuff he had grown up with.

  The only issue he had with it all was that if he was Anto’s unfinished business, what was supposed to happen next?

  Frank was always saying he had to become a light in the darkness, and Billie was always saying that he could become a voice crying in the wilderness, but Danny wasn’t sure. He still wasn’t ready to trust himself but he had to do something. He couldn’t just go along with things. That wasn’t what he had sobered up for. Life was just too dark if you couldn’t have a bit of fun now and then.

  Chapter 6 – 2002

  It was time for another fiesta. They all needed something to change the mood. It had been another cold, dark winter and it was still only February. And it was Martin’s last year of high school. Things were going to change and they mightn’t get as much time together anymore.

  Deirdre was so proud of him. She was proud of both her children but Martin was turning into such a fine young man. It was his idea that she invite Eduardo. He said she didn’t have to hide him. He even got Rachael involved. “Yes, Ms. Fallon. We’r
e all dying to meet him.”

  Rachael practically lived with them now and Deirdre didn’t mind. Grainne was so much easier to deal with when she was around. Rachael had become like a big sister and kept the peace, alternating her loyalties as evenly as she could. And she was an only child.

  “Yes, Mom.” Grainne had joined in and put her arm around Rachael as they both smiled synchronously, almost like cats. “We’re dying to meet him. Is he like . . . all dreamy?”

  “No he’s gross and greasy and he has a moustache like Saddam Hussein,” Martin teased them.

  “Who?”

  “The guy on TV with the chemical weapons.”

  “Oh him. He gives me the creeps.”

  “I’m impressed, Grainne. I hadn’t noticed how much you paid attention to world affairs.”

  “I’m not a moron, Mom. Jeez.”

  And before Martin jumped in, Rachael ironed out the wrinkles. “That’s not what your mother meant. She was complimenting you.”

  “Yes, Grainne, I was. And I’m very proud of you.” Her daughter smiled as she hadn’t since . . . Deirdre couldn’t remember when and wanted to make this one last. “And what do you think of him?”

  “Well, he gassed people . . . and he attacked Kuwait. And everyone says he has links with terrorists . . . and he’s all like . . . old and gross.”

  “Wow, air-brain, I’m impressed too.”

  “Martin, be nice,” Rachael scolded before Deirdre could.

  “Yes, Martin,” she added anyway. “Girls are not encouraged to pay attention to things like that.”

  “Mom. Hello-a, I’m still in the room.”

  “I know, sweetie. I just don’t think we should let your brother ruin things with his misogyny.”

  “Yes, Auntie Miriam,” they all chimed in, in unison. They always did that when she was about to rant. She didn’t mind. Except she didn’t want to sound like Miriam, even if she was her best friend in the whole world. Things weren’t going very well for her. It looked like it was over with Karl. They both probably knew it, but neither of them knew how to get out. And Deirdre couldn’t tell them—not until Miriam brought it up. “Well I hope you’re all going to behave yourselves when Eduardo is here.”