"You know the first piece I read of yours was the article on Seychelles," he said as they sat down. "It was a superb article. You were critical of the organizers."She nodded. "What was the name of that Indian place we went to? Viceroys, or Raj, I think it was called. Something with a colonial ring to it." He tapped his forehead to remember."The Taj.""That's right," he laughed, longer than seemed necessary.The conversation had grown awkward again, and Lola wished the waiter had given them more time before returning to announce the choice of condiments."Mango chutney. Spicy sauce. Yogurt." The man beamed."And Emelia?" He asked."The last time I heard, she got married to Chris and was living somewhere in California. We haven't stayed in touch.""And You? Tell me more about your Businesses, especially your plans for startups," she said, searching for a neutral topic of conversation."Well, I would prefer to tell you something much more interesting.""I'm all ears," she smiled."I do
She had said no the first time he asked her to marry him. But when he proposed again several months later, she managed to persuade herself that her initial reservations were foolish. He was, after all, her closest friend and it seemed only natural that they should marry. Eighteen years. She had grown to love him, but those things that she had not liked in the beginning never went away and what was, for a short time, the attraction of his older age soon disappeared as well. Now he was forgetful and prone to repeating stories. In his retirement he spent hours and hours in his men's clubs with his very English friends. He smoked and drank, and talked incessantly of holiday homes in the south of France. He no longer thirsted for Africa. And then there was something else, so small and trivial that it bothered Lola that she even noticed it, yet it was worse than all the other irritations, and always there. His smell. It cloaked the house and seeped into everything they owned: clothes, curta
For example, I'm no longer certain about the existence of a God. There are both fundamental elements in our culture that one is not supposed to question. I also find that I tire of social interaction in a way that is deemed unacceptable to most people here, and this is where Mphahele's essay seemed particularly insightful to me now. I refer to 'The Fabric of African cultures' which is an exposé of the so-called elements that make up the 'African personality.' These characteristics are obviously generalizations, but I believe they still ring true for much of the continent. Mphahele speaks of the importance attached to the extended family, communal responsibility and reverence for ancestral spirits, but it is his last observation that particularly struck me this time around. Mphahele speaks of the cultural tendency to gravitate toward other people rather than toward things and places. This is something I was only subliminally aware of until I read the essay. In a way, 'things' (such as
Lola stared at her computer thinking of Jason's most recent letters. She had remembered something that her mother once told her about love, and she tried to remember when the conversation had taken place, deciding that it must have been late in the summer. They had been sitting in the garden, she with a book on her lap and Mother could have been telling any story, the mere cadence of her voice was enough to soothe, but it wasn't just any old story. In retrospect, Lola wished she had asked more questions, but at that time she could only think of how things related to her and Jason. Now she wondered what the story might have meant to Mother, and who might have told her the story. Her mother had told her that there was a saying that a person never married their first love. A person always married someone else, but later in life that person would be reunited with their first love. They apparently has a phrase for it: they call it the Pick-up-your-stick-and-standals marriage, which
Rain fell lightly from all directions like fine sifted flour being shaken from the heavens. This was England, Sussex to be precise, in the middle of summer. Joy, the Zimbabwean care worker, opened the front door and nodded without speaking as she let Lola in. Not for the first time did Lola wonder how a person so dour-looking could be so named. The lack of communication with joyless Joy bothered Lola. Usually others warmed to her, and especially Africans who were always delighted by the mere fact that she knew something about their continent. But then perhaps it was not fair to blame Joy. Working in such a place was bound to squeeze out every last bit of joy from a person. The Garrison Home for the Elderly had a steamed up feel - warm and stuffy, like a Second-hand clothing shop with the added lingering smells of Sunday roast, disinfectant and urine. When Lola arrived, three people sat in the lounge: her grandfather; Mrs Bailey slouched in her chair, fast asleep; and dear old Mrs
Ivy lived in a one-bedroom apartment on Franklin Street - one of the few streets in San Francisco that never went to sleep. At all hours of the night, just like the day, cars accelerated down the hill, filling the air with exhaust fumes that rose to the level of her second floor apartment. The noise of engines, brakes and the occasional blaring of horns meant that the night was never silent and nor was it dark. There was always a steady stream of headlights and sometimes the whirling lights of emergency vehicles, their sirens piercing the night with their high-pitched wails. Sleep was hard, but then it always was these days. If Jason did fall asleep, he dreamt of a negative outcome of his visit and awake sweating.He had two recurring nightmares: one where he was drowning in a prison cell and the other where Charles floated away in the form of a sheet of paper that Jason could never catch. People said that after the accident, Charles appeared fine. When they pulled him from the
The kitchen table had become Lola's place to write. The clock said 3am and the house was silent except for the ticking of the old, and familiar clock. Tick tock, tick tock; she rocked her head from side to side in time. After a while she got up to make some tea. "Yes," she thought, this was what happened to her mothers later in life; they became nocturnal creatures. She would always go to bed early with Edward, but then get up at these quietest moments of the night - the perfect time to think. Edward would sometimes join her for a minute or two, but he would tell her that she worked too hard, and she would promise to stop. He knew she wouldn't, and she knew he knew, but this was their script and there was a certain comfort in sticking to it. Now, as she waited for the water to boil, she thought of Jason. It would still be daytime in California. What would he be doing? At least he was safe now. She sighed and returned to the table with her mug of rosehip tea. Everything was laid
A few days after her father arrived, Ivy introduced Jason to John Harris, professor of Economics at San Francisco State University and Grandfather to the children she nannied. Professor Harris was delighted to meet Jason and later offered him an opportunity to recruit the best and brightest to help keep the company at its feet. This offer came as a surprise and not a particularly welcome one. He had little desire to interact with people, and the recruitment would force him to do just that. "Mr Davis, I don't believe it!" "Yes?" Jason turned, expecting to see a student. "What!" Jason exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" "What are you doing here?" Robert laughed as they embraced.Robert had been at the university teaching theater arts for the past seven years and had only just heard Jason's arrival. The meeting felt like a homecoming to Jason and from that day on he had a friend to talk to about arts and as well as his experience so far. It was with Robert that he woul
Jason was receiving an award for his book that he'd published and Jimmy was in the city, so he did the best thing he could before running off to Florence. It has been a long time since he'd been around but the event that had unfolded recently had taught him to spend more time with family. Encaenia took place in the Sheldonian - a long and rambling ceremony conducted in Latin for six distinguished persons though, in Lola's mind, this was a celebration mainly for Jason. At last, he was receiving the recognition he deserved. After the ceremony, she stood and watched him with pride as he mingled with guests. She had met Jason briefly before the ceremony and they had hugged, but hardly spoken; too many people and not enough time. She thought at first that it was perhaps the way it should be, with no time for sentimentalism, but no, she decided that it was not the way it should be. They needed more time. "Do you know all these people?" Malik whispered."No." Lola shook her head, even tho
Night had fallen over Shekina. Jimmy stood alone on the porch of the fieldstone house enjoying the sounds of laughter and reunion drifting through the screened door behind him. The mug of coffee in his hand had granted him hazy reprieve from his mounting exhaustion, and yet he sensed the reprieve would be fleeting. The fatigue in his body went to the core. "You slipped out quietly," a voice behind said.He turned. McEwan's grandmother emerged, her silver hair shimmering in the night. Jimmy gave a tired smile. "I thought I'd give your family some time together." Through the window, he could see McEwan talking with her brother. Sophie's grandmother came beside him. "Mr. Jim, when I first heard of Esquibel's murder, I was terrified for McEwan's sake. Seeing her standing in my doorway tonight was the greatest relief of my life. I cannot thank you enough."Jimmy had no idea how to respond. Although he had offered to give McEwan and her grandmother time to talk in private, she had asked
"Davis?" McEwan was standing outside the car, looking back at him. "Are you coming?" She was holding the rosewood box, which captain Romano had returned to them. Inside, both cryptex had been reassembled and nested as they had been found. The verse was locked safely at its core - minus the shattered vessel of vinegar.Making their way up the long gravel path, Jimmy and McEwan passed the famous west Wall of the chapel. Casual visitors assumed this oddly protruding wall was a section of the chapel that had not been finished. The truth, Jimmy recalled, was far more intriguing. Shekina chapel's entrance was more modest than Jimmy expected. The small wooden door had two iron hinges. The chapel would be closing soon, and as Jimmy pulled open the door, a warm puff of air escaped, as if the ancient edifice were having a weary sigh at the end of a long day. Entering with McEwan, Jimmy felt his eyes reaching across the famous sanctuary and taking it all in. Although he had read accounts of She
The mist had settled low as Amorth limped into a quiet hollow out of sight. Kneeling on the wet grass, he could feel a warm stream of blood flowing from the bullet wound below his ribs. Still, he managed.The fog made it look like heaven here.Raising his bloody hands, he prayed, but most importantly he prayed for his mentor… Myositis… that he would not fade with the sands of time. The fog was swirling around him now, and Amorth felt so light that he was sure the wisps would carry him away. Closing his eyes, he said a final prayer.His pains at last began to fade, and he knew Myositis was right. It was late afternoon when the London sun broke through and the city began to dry. Andrie Romano felt weary as he emerged from the interrogation room and hailed a cab. Sir Albert Rodriguez had noisily proclaimed his innocence, and yet from his loose ranting about the Archstone, secret documents, and mysterious brotherhood, Roman suspected the sly historian was setting the stage for his lawye
Myositis's body had endured many kinds of pain, and yet the searing heat of the bullet wound in his chest felt profoundly foreign to him. Deep and grave. Not a wound of the flesh… but closer to the soul. He opened his eyes, trying to see, but the rain on his face buried his vision. He could feel powerful arms holding him, carrying his limp body like a rag doll, his black cassock flapping. Lifting a weary arm, he mopped his eyes and saw the man holding him was Amorth. He was struggling down a sidewalk, shouting for a hospital, his voice a heart-rending wail of agony. His red eyes were focused dead ahead, tears streaming down his face. "My son," Myositis whispered, "you're hurt." Amorth glanced down, his visage contorted in anguish. "I am sorry sorry, Father." He seemed almost too pained to speak. "No," Myositis replied. "It is I who am sorry. This is my fault. I was too eager. Too fearful. You and I were deceived." Myositis was unconscious when the doors of St Luke's hospital hiss
Jimmy and McEwan moved slowly down the north aisle, keeping the shadows behind the ample pillars that separated it from the open nave. Despite having traveled more than halfway down the nave, they still had no clear view of the tomb. The sarcophagus was recessed in a niche, obscured from this oblique angle."At least there's nobody over there," McEwan whispered.Jimmy nodded, relieved. The entire section of the nave near Klaus' tomb was deserted. "I'll go over," he whispered. "You should stay hidden just in case someone-"McEwan had already stepped from the shadows and was headed across the open floor."-is watching," Jimmy sighed, hurrying to join her.Crossing the massive nave on a diagonal, Jimmy and McEwan remained silent as the elaborate sepulcher revealed itself in Tantalus increments… a black-marble sarcophagus… a reclining statue of Klaus… two winged boys… a huge pyramid… and… an enormous orb."Did you know about that?" McEwan said, sounding startled.Jimmy shook his head, als
Jimmy had not gotten his eyes off the computer screen since the search began. He was starting to get worried.Anita Istredd was in the adjoining room, preparing hot drinks. Jimmy and Sophie had inquired unwisely if there might be some coffee brewing alongside the tea Istredd had offered, and from the sound of the microwave beeps in the next room, Jimmy suspected their request was about to be rewarded with instant Nescafe.Finally, the computer pinged happily."Sounds like you got another," Istredd called from the next room. "What does it say?"Jimmy looked at the screen, disappointed.They sat patiently in front of the screen and waited through two more dubious returns. When the computer pinged again, nothing interesting happened.Istredd peeked back in the doorway, holding a packet of instant coffee. "You don't want the full text," Istredd called. "Click on the hypertext title. The computer will display your keyword hits along with mono prelogs and triple post logs for context."Jim
Copus peccate's headquarter in London is a modest brick building. Amorth had never been here, but he felt a rising sense of refuge and asylum as he approached the building on foot. Despite the rain, Beardsley had dropped him off a short distance away in order to keep the limousine off the main Streets. Amorth didn't mind the walk. The rain was cleansing.At Beardsley's suggestion, Amorth had wiped down his gun and dispose of it through the sewer grate. He was glad to get rid of it. He felt lighter. His legs still ache from being bound all the time, but he had endured far greater pain. He wondered, though, about Rodriguez, who Beardsley had left bound in the back of the limousine. The Briton certainly had to be feeling pain by now."What will you do with him?" Amorth had asked Beardsley as they drove over here.Beardsley had shrugged. "That is a decision the Teacher would make." There was an odd finality in his tone.Now, as Amorth approached the building, the rain began to fall harder
Jimmy still felt shaken as he and McEwan came from the rain and entered the library. The primary research room was as Rodriguez had described it - a dramatic octagonal chamber dominated by an enormous round table with twelve flat-screen computer workstations. On the far side of the room, a reference librarian was just pouring a pot of tea and settling in for the day of work. "Good morning," she said in a beautiful British accent, leaving the tea and walking over. "May I help you?""Thank you, yes please," Jimmy replied. "My name is-""Jimmy Davis." She gave a pleasant smile. "I know who you are."For instance, he feared Romano had put him on English television as well, but the librarian's smile suggested otherwise. Jimmy had not gotten used to these moments of unexpected celebrity. Then again, if anyone on earth were going to recognize his face, it would be a Librium in a religious studies reference facility."Anita Istredd," the librarian said, offering her hand. She had a friend