by E. J. Simon
“Part of the meaning of life is that we die. The Greeks warned about the danger of grasping for godlike powers. In the end, however, we can never achieve what God alone controls. Those are rules He has set forth and that we have lived by since the beginning of man’s existence.
“But, as all of us know, Alex Nicholas was an exception to many rules. In fact, he didn’t care for rules at all, whether they were the laws of a government or society, or those of the church. He defied them all, even in death. And he made his peace with the church on this matter. In fact, next week we will dedicate our new Greek-language elementary school here in Astoria, aptly named, the Alex Nicholas Greek–American Academy.”
So that’s how Alex did it. Funny how Father Papageorge never mentioned it in all their discussions about his brother. A donation to get the church to bless his decision to be cremated.
Lord knows what else he got away with.
Turned out, heaven was expensive.
Chapter 86
Yankee Stadium, Bronx, New York
This was to be the last and final stop for the remainder of Alex’s ashes.
Michael had surreptitiously lifted a small amount from the urn before the funeral mass at the cemetery, engaging Samantha and the Lesters to distract Father Papageorge so he wouldn’t risk the priest’s disapproval. After all, Alex had already violated the rules for getting into heaven with his cremation. It was unlikely that spreading one’s ashes on a major league baseball field would be church sanctioned, and Michael wasn’t about to finance another Greek school for the church.
Fortunately, Michael had taken possession of Alex’s four season tickets at Yankee Stadium, front-row seats in right field, just to the left of the foul pole in fair territory.
Michael, Samantha, and the two Lesters entered, taking their seats where only a low wall separated them from the green grass and red clay. It was as close as you could get to playing right field for the Yankees without making the team.
Michael carried the remainder of Alex’s ashes in his pants pocket, inside a sealed sandwich bag. He immediately ordered four beers. Neither Michael nor Samantha had drunk a beer in decades but it seemed like the right beverage for the occasion, plus, both Lesters loved beer. He knew Samantha wouldn’t drink it, but the cups were a good diversion for what was to come.
Fat Lester was the first to finish his beer. As they had agreed, he handed the empty cup to Michael, who, while leaning down under his seat, carefully transferred what remained of his brother into the wax-coated beer cup. Sitting back, Michael held the cup in his hand and resumed watching the game, careful not to mindlessly take a sip. He watched the game, thinking about all the times he’d sat in these same seats with Alex…waiting for the right moment.
Three innings passed before the Yankees’ young first baseman took a huge swing at the ball…and connected. Michael heard the crack of the bat as the ball soared high in the air, headed their way.
In all his years of watching games at the stadium, from the time he was little kid, he’d never come close to catching a ball in the stands.
This one would be close.
As the ball began its descent, everyone in the seats around him stood, hands outstretched, reaching for the elusive home run souvenir.
Michael, too, finally rose, still holding the cup, not reaching out but watching, admiring the arc of the ball’s flight, and enjoying the irony of the moment. As the ball neared the end of its flight, it appeared to pick up speed and, despite the surrounding fans’ best efforts to catch it, struck Michael’s shoulder. Instinctively, his hands went to grasp the ball as a tangle of other spectators stumbled onto and around him. In the mayhem, the cup fell from Michael’s hands replaced by the precious white leather baseball with red stitching. Its feel and appearance instantly brought back memories of slow summer months playing baseball, coached by the big brother whose ashes remained inside the cup that had fallen from Michael’s hands. He looked down and watched as the cup hit the low wall separating the seats from the playing field. As the cup ricocheted off the wall, conveniently landing at Michael’s feet, Alex’s ashes flew out of the cup and onto the red clay warning track of right field. A soft fine mist rose up from the gray-stained spot where his ashes settled.
Chapter 87
Saint-Rémy, France
To anyone who was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her in person, Catherine Saint-Laurent, the legendary French film star, was even more beautiful in her maturing years than she had been in the prime of her career. She still enjoyed the wave of turning heads that followed her anytime she appeared in public, that momentary flash of recognition and awe that she glimpsed on strangers’ faces as they recognized her. Even among the ever-discreet French, neither men nor women could suppress the impulse to turn and stare, their eyes following her or straining to keep her in their sight as they walked by.
There were curious whispers, too, as observers and, lately, gossip rags noted the constant presence of her equally beautiful, young companion, the tall, tanned, blond American, Jennifer Walsh. A recent headline in the Daily Mirror read, “Aging French Actress Beds All-American Beauty.” After Catherine read it, she was quoted as saying the only part that troubled her was the aging part, not the details of their relationship nor the photos of them lying nude by the pool of her villa in Saint-Tropez, her hand suggestively resting on the most private part of Jennifer’s slim stomach as they tanned their oiled, glistening bodies.
She’d come to dine with Michael and Samantha here in Saint-Remy, the stylish town nestled in the hills of Provence and frequented by the creative Parisian set.
The staff at Le Mas de Carassins obviously knew Michael and Samantha well too; they’d vacationed at the resort each summer for ten years.
Although Saint-Laurent was the main attraction to everyone around them, they sat at Michael’s regular table under the trees with the soft evening lights hidden in the trees illuminating the table. It was a Van Gogh still life: starched white tablecloth, warm candlelight, a bright blue carafe of water alongside a bottle of red Domaine de Lansac, a pink, tender, breast of duck meticulously plated around creamy mashed potatoes, fashionably dressed patrons, most of them regulars from years past, the joyful yet respectfully hushed French conversations…the entire scene of the dining patio elegantly framed by tall hedges trimmed to architectural precision.
“You look beautiful, as always, Catherine,” Samantha said.
“My dear friend Coco Chanel used to say that anyone past the age of twenty who looks into the mirror to be pleased is a fool.”
“That’s nonsense,” Michael said.
“Yes, well, nevertheless, here we are. Michael, Samantha, thank you so much for inviting us here,” Catherine Saint-Laurent’s voice purred, exactly as it did in her movies. “I have never stayed at Carassins but I can see why you come here so often. The dinner is lovely and this setting is exquisite.”
“Catherine often forgets that there is life and beauty outside of Paris and Saint-Tropez,” Jennifer Walsh added, her tanned slender hand reaching over to hold her partner’s.
“It is true, I get comfortable in my habits and I tend not to venture out. There is so much beauty…everywhere.” She motioned to their surroundings as she spoke. “We miss your brother, and every time I see you, I must confess, it brings back such memories.”
“For us both,” Jennifer added, flashing her all-American smile and perfect teeth.
Under the table, Michael could feel the gentle touch of Samantha’s hand, signaling what he knew was her natural suspicion of their guests. Months ago, Michael had confessed to Samantha that while on a business trip shortly after Alex’s death, Catherine had invited him up to her hotel room in Cannes to engage in what Alex had evidently done so often with Catherine and Jennifer, a ménage à trois. Fortunately, he had the sense to decline, but when Jennifer suggested that he still come up and simply…watch, he coul
dn’t resist the temptation. It was a scene he would never forget, nor would he want to. Michael had tried to explain the incident away as the difference in French mores, to no avail. Samantha liked Catherine well enough but remained fundamentally suspicious.
“So, tell us about your latest project,” Samantha said.
Michael knew she was trying to change the subject.
“You will love this,” Catherine said, looking at Michael. “It will be a movie about a big-time, tough underworld figure, not Mafia, of course, but his own boss. He runs a huge illegal bookmaking operation in New York; he’s a rough but charismatic character, loyal and, in his own way, very honest. He is murdered by a retired mafioso who’s in love with one of—let’s call him Alex—Alex’s embittered ex-wives and wants to please her.”
“This sounds familiar,” Michael said, smiling. “You’ll definitely have to change the name.”
“Yes, of course, but I’m not done. You see Alex is, apparently, murdered, in a Queens restaurant and bar while he is dining with the attractive and sexy proprietor, in front of many New York City policemen who are customers there. But this is where the story—and the mystery—truly begins because, after his wife collects on his large insurance policy and, with his younger brother’s help, locates millions of dollars in hidden cash, strange things occur.”
“Strange things?” Michael asked, although he and everyone at the table knew what they were.
“Yes, of course. His body, although apparently buried in a Queens cemetery, is missing and, to this day, has never been found. His widow, a character herself, claims she has been in touch with him on the Internet. Then, a famous actress, a beautiful and talented star, with whom he had an ongoing affair, also begins to receive strange…shall we say, messages, even images, on her computer. Then, while she’s on camera, filming a scene for a movie, she’s sure he is watching her through her laptop, which she’s using as a prop. He is communicating with her, but while the cameras are rolling she cannot react; she can’t acknowledge the messages she’s receiving since she’s in the middle of a scene.”
It wasn’t the first time Catherine had pitched something like this to Michael, but this time she had a lot more of the story filled in.
All of this, of course, had really happened, and it brought the trusted Catherine into the small circle of friends who knew there was more to the late Alex than seemed humanly possible. It had taken two years and the recent White House “invitation” before even Samantha had come to believe that the dead and buried Alex was anything but a creation of Michael’s grieving imagination. And for her part, Alex’s widow, Donna, still seemed to be convinced that Alex was simply living the good life in a Las Vegas condo surrounded by strippers.
But Michael feared further exposure, especially now that the President of the United States was involved as a matter of national security. Not to mention Russia…
And then there was the fact that there were a bunch of priests and Nazis willing to kill them over whatever it was that Alex was.
“I don’t know, Catherine. The concept is of course so appealing but—”
“Not only appealing,” Catherine said, “but true…yes?”
“Tell me,” Samantha said, “how does it end?”
“Ah, that is the best part, of course. It—”
Before she could finish, Michael put his hands up.
“We’re in. I will invest and back your movie,” he said to everyone’s surprise.
Samantha turned to him with an unmistakable look that said What the hell are you doing?
He wasn’t quite sure himself.
In a matter of seconds, however, Samantha’s expression lightened. Michael was relieved; he’d long ago learned to read her expressions, and it was apparent that she had resigned herself to Michael’s decision. He wondered why but was glad to accept it on its face.
“So now,” he said, “tell us how it ends.”
Chapter 88
Saint-Rémy, France
“How does it end?” Catherine asked rhetorically, looking around, taking in the moment, and seeming to absorb new energy from the suspense and the attention. “Alex’s ashes are finally discovered and buried…but Alex lives on.”
“You mean,” Samantha said, “in our—or, for whoever this person is—in the hearts of those who loved him?”
“Yes, of course, but much more than that. You see, Alex—let us continue to call him Alex—still lives on.”
“Then where is he? How is he doing it?” Michael said, curious as to how much Catherine could surmise, imagine…or know.
“The world of the spirt, of what some call God, it is invisible, no? No one has ever seen Him, there is no real evidence of His existence. Yet He or the concept of Him has endured for thousands of years.”
“Wow,” Jennifer said, “I love this. It’s so…spiritual.”
Ignoring her young lover’s LA-style wonderment, Catherine said, “There is much more to life and existence than we can actually see or touch. After all, our religions are based ultimately on faith, not empirical evidence. Yet He has persevered and is all around us, in some form, even if only in our minds and hearts. He exists.”
Everyone leaned in closer to Catherine as though she were about to reveal life’s ultimate mystery.
“Similarly, the Internet and our iPhones and computers, they are now almost a part of us; our phones might as well be attached to or inside our bodies. Look at you.” She pointed to Michael’s mobile phone, which lay beside his plate. “Your phone is always right by your side, ringing or vibrating; it’s integrated into your mind.”
“Okay,” Michael said, “I get that, but what’s it got to do with Alex?”
“Yes, of course. Well, just like our religions and belief in God, this technology also operates invisibly. Photos, movies, voices, information, all travel throughout the world and beyond, all without wires. In a millisecond we can transfer a world of information thousands of miles away and it just…appears. There is clearly more going on around us than we can see or logically explain. And so Alex, too, is part of this invisible world. He has integrated himself into the invisible whatever-is-out-there that we cannot see but know exists.”
“But how? Do you mean like anyone else we love who dies? We live on with them in our memories?”
“No, Alex is more than that. Much more. He’s not just a memory that stays with us. He is present. His messages, texts, e-mails to me—to the actor through her computer in the movie—those were not memories, they were real. Alex is actually quite a force, an intelligent one, and powerful, more so than he ever was in life.”
“I don’t understand,” Samantha said.
Michael—and he guessed everyone else at the table—was no longer sure if Catherine was talking about her idea for the movie—or her actual experiences and beliefs about Alex’s continued existence.
Catherine asked, “Do you remember the movie, many years ago now, 2001: A Space Odyssey? And the computer, HAL, that ran the spaceship?”
Oh, sweet Jesus, Michael thought. That movie again.
“Yes,” Michael said. “HAL wound up having a mind of his own. He was a computer but he took on a human-like intelligence and…a human-like survival instinct.”
“Exactly,” Catherine said. “He was more than a machine, he had an awareness, a consciousness and, even more…a consciousness of his existence. These are human-like qualities, yes?” She looked around the table; everyone was nodding in agreement, and Michael, in wonderment.
Was Alex secretly keeping in touch with his old lover? Was he hiding his ongoing relationship with her from Michael now, just as he had for so many years when he was alive? Catherine knew too much, especially for someone who, although known to be intelligent, intuitive, and sensitive, was far from scientifically inclined.
“Let me ask you,” Catherine said. “If this computer character, thi
s creature of the most advanced artificial intelligence—Alex—is truly intelligent, just like HAL or IBM’s Watson, and if he obviously has a memory of all that happened before—is he not then human? And if his image, his physical characteristics, his facial expressions and body movements, his voice, his ability to hear and recognize others, if all that is present, albeit on a computer screen, is he not the same person that we knew?”
Michael could feel Samantha squeezing his hand under the table. Something was happening here. No one else was speaking; Michael, Samantha, and Jennifer remained silent as Catherine held center stage.
“Finally, my dear friends, in view of all of this that I have said, let me ask you a question. Is there any difference between intelligence and consciousness? You see, this character in my screenplay, let’s continue to call him Alex, is the perfect coming-together of the spirit and the machine. Human intelligence and technology have caught up with the mystery of human existence. And so they are one.”
The sounds of the other diners at Le Mas des Carassins, the clinking of glasses, the casual background music of Frank Sinatra, the hushed conversations, came back to Michael. The world still went on around him. He looked at Samantha, who also seemed…awed.
Catherine took a long sip of her wine, savoring the attention. “You see, nothing is forever over, is it?”
Chapter 89
Berlin, Germany
When Heidi awoke, she knew something had changed.
Her visual sensors slowly adjusted to the dark inside the shop as she rose from the couch and took off the gaudy black lace nightgown that Heidrich the shopkeeper had dressed her in to appeal to the filthy Russians, who, more and more, were ordering models that at least looked like her. Those were the dumb ones, though, ordinary mannequins that weren’t equipped with the advanced AI that Heidi possessed.