“WHY HAVE YOU HUMILIATED ME IN THIS WAY?”
I resisted the urge to cringe as Justus’s voice rolled over me with all the thunder and fury of an old-time preacher.
“Signor Genzano did not intend to embarrass you, Il Presidente.” I spoke quickly, the words running together as I pulled them out of thin air. “He is concerned for Global Union. He is concerned for your soul.” I heard Justus take a deep, angry, and insulted breath, but he didn’t speak, so I continued. “Asher is a man of deep religious conviction. He has spoken to me of many things over the past few days, and I honestly believe he only wants what is best for you and Global Union.”
Justus’s face went quite pale, with a deep red patch over his cheekbones, as though someone had slapped him hard on both cheeks. “The man is a lunatic! And you—whatever possessed you to bring him up here?”
“I—” For the first time in years, words failed me. I had been depending on Asher’s ability to make Justus see the truth. It should have been simple, but it took time for Asher to convince me, and it might take time for Justus to come around.
But time was something Justus did not seem inclined to give either of us. Neither did God seem inclined to grant a miracle.
A thunderous scowl darkened his brow as his gaze fell upon me. “You are finished here. Your employment shall terminate in one hour, and I expect you to have your office cleared of all personal belongings. Leave your badge with the security officer in the reception area.”
My stomach dropped like a hanged man. I had never been fired from a job, nor had I ever had a client look at me the way Santos Justus did. He eyed me as if I were a bad smell.
I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “Anything else?”
“If you think the matter ends here, you’re sadly mistaken. You will never work again in Europe. The hot breath of religion is the last thing we need in the sensitive atmosphere of global politics. For two thousand years we have been striving to rid ourselves of religion’s poisonous stench, and yet you have the audacity to hire a zealous bigot and drag his nonsense even into my office!”
From some reserve of strength I didn’t know I possessed, I summoned the courage to answer him. “Asher Genzano is neither a bigot nor a lunatic. He is only a Christian.”
Justus’s gaze locked on mine, focusing on me with predatory intensity. “I suppose you are one of those fanatics too.”
I swallowed hard. “I want very much to be.”
“Then va al diavolo to you both!” He flung out his hand, literally sending me away. I turned and left the room, giving the unnaturally blonde secretary a stiff nod as I passed from the outer office into the lobby. And as I pressed the elevator button and tried to stop my knees from trembling, I wondered how I had managed to travel from the peaks of confidence to the pits of despair in less than a week. The man who would have paved my road to fame and fortune had just told me to go to the devil.
After stopping in a ladies’ washroom to splash my hands and face with water, I went to my office and emptied my desk drawers of all personal items. I piled my pocket tape recorder, a half-dozen books, and my favorite Waterman pen into my leather briefcase, then pulled my laptop’s plug from the electrical outlet with one smooth jerk. Into the briefcase it went as well, with a handful of personal files from the credenza. I picked up a framed photo of Kirsten and Travis and dropped it into the case, then settled the leather strap onto my shoulder and turned for a last look around.
“Signorina Fischer?” Maura Casale’s husky voice caught me by surprise. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m leaving, signora.” I gave her an abrupt nod, then gestured toward my desk. “If I have left anything of personal value, will you send it to me? I expect I’ll be leaving Rome soon.” I slipped a business card from my wallet. “Here’s my New York address.”
The personnel director merely stared, apparently tongue-tied, as I pressed my card against her palm and moved through the doorway. “By the way, signora”—I turned in the hall—“have you seen Signor Genzano in the last five minutes? I’d like to speak to him before I go.”
Wordlessly, she pointed toward the elevator.
I stopped on the fourth floor and looked for Asher, but the Publications secretary said he had already left for the day. I thanked her and strode away, determined to leave the building before my fragile facade cracked and shattered into a million tears.
The rush of adrenaline supported me through my exit interview at the security station where I handed in my ID badge and requested my passport. The guard stepped back to his desk to place a telephone call, watching me through half-closed lids as he confirmed my story, then he returned my passport without ceremony. I took it, flipped through the pages to be sure it hadn’t been altered, then slipped it into my bulging briefcase.
A surge of indignation carried me out of the building and northward for two blocks, then swirled away like water from an unclogged kitchen sink. As the wind fingered my hair, I plodded forward with a couple of waddling pigeons for company. I felt empty without the rush of adrenaline, so I took a seat in a neighborhood trattoria and ordered a sandwich and a diet soda. I wasn’t hungry but forced myself to eat. As I chewed the unusually tasteless meal, my eyes carelessly scanned the crowds moving on the sidewalk.
I should have been flooded with relief. I was free from my contract, so in a matter of days I could return to the life I had left behind. I could be with Kirsten and help her through her grief. I could go back to Manhattan and pick up the pieces of my practice, hire a new secretary, and prepare to defend my territory against Elaine Dawson’s invasion. I could visit Rory’s wife and offer my long-overdue condolences. Justus might very well prevent me from working in Europe again, but I had responsibilities aplenty in New York.
But my mind still burned from the encounter I’d witnessed in Justus’s office. How surreal the situation now seemed! From reading Asher’s journal, I knew he possessed great courage under pressure, but I read unmistakable signs of nervousness in his body when he confronted Justus. Did his anxiety stem from his conviction that he was speaking to the future Antichrist, or was it the simple tension anyone would experience when faced with a long-sought goal?
And why had Justus reacted so strongly? Why couldn’t he accept Asher’s concern at face value and, if he wasn’t interested in religion, politely dismiss him? Asher’s fears were not unfounded. Though Justus was not a particularly evil man, the potential for corruption and power undoubtedly yawned before him. How many other men had stood on the brink of world conquest? Hundreds. And how many kings and dictators and emperors had been corrupted by the power they wielded? Most, if not all. The few men who chose to govern with love and gentleness were no match for evil and ambition.
While I searched for references to the Wandering Jew in Germany, I found a quote where Hitler spoke for most would-be world rulers when he proclaimed that Jesus Christ was “a self-appointed rabbi whose teachings of meekness and love ended in the surrender of the will to survive.” Hitler saw the Christian virtues of forgiveness, self-abnegation, weakness, and humility as “the seeds of decadence” and “the very denial of the evolutionary laws of survival of the fittest, the most courageous and talented.”
I stirred the straw in my soft drink. Hitler spoke as one who believed nothing existed outside of life, but Asher certainly didn’t feel that way. He yearned for death, evidenced real jealousy toward those who found it, and seemed convinced that the hereafter was infinitely more beautiful than the here and now.
Where had he gone? For some inexplicable reason, I worried about him. He was a grown man and quite capable of caring for himself, but in the last hour he had finally come face to face with his target . . . and failed to hit the mark.
What would he do now? Would he continue his pursuit of Justus or search for another man who might fit the role of Antichrist? I considered the latter option for a moment, then dismissed it. Asher had been convinced that Santos Davide Justus was the man who would be king, and I didn’t think he’d give up as long as Justus lived.
He wouldn’t be able to work through Global Union, though. If Justus had been furious enough to fire me, he certainly wouldn’t allow Asher to remain at Union headquarters. A memo had probably already appeared on Signora Casale’s computer: Dismiss the translator and hire another. Alert security; Asher Genzano is not to enter the building . . .
I crumpled the paper wrapping from my sandwich, then stood and tossed it into a waste bin. Keeping my soft drink cup, I slipped my briefcase strap back onto my shoulder and stepped into the parade of passing pedestrians, walking northward toward the Piazza della Rotonda and the Pantheon. With any luck, I’d find Asher sitting in an espresso shop or a trattoria along the way.
An unexpected weed of jealousy sprang up in my heart as I walked. Asher might have been doomed to a life he did not want, but at least he had managed to find a purpose. What purpose did I have? None—at least none that mattered. I had come to Rome with the goal of proving myself to be the world’s leading people reader, but what did my personal ambition matter in the face of the world’s needs? Asher had steered his life on a course to serve mankind; daily he poured himself out in an effort to buy a few more years for people he had never even met. For the sake of others he had endured pain, loneliness, sorrow, and suffering, while I had done nothing but attempt to polish my own rising star.
Santos Justus’s goal of world peace was more noble than my ambition.
I abruptly changed directions, accidentally bumping another woman’s shoulder. “Scusi!” I tossed the apology over my shoulder, then glanced up at the street sign. Asher once mentioned that he liked to visit the Pincio Gardens when he needed to think, and those gardens were just off this bus route and not far from my residenza.
I caught the bus, stared mindlessly through the windows until we reached the Piazza del Popolo, then exited. The hillside above Il Pincio was green with life even in November and the zigzagging path that climbed to the gardens all but invisible through the evergreens. Lengthening my stride, I cut across the piazza and entered the garden path, watching for Asher as I climbed. Beneath a canopy of umbrella pines, palm trees, and gnarled oaks, the garden’s broad avenues seemed a quiet oasis in the midst of the city’s bustle.
When I finally reached the Pincio’s main square, I stood on the crest of a hill and stared in wonder at the panoramic view stretching before me. A signpost beside the path told me I could see from the Monte Mario to the Janiculum. I didn’t recognize either of those names; I only knew the view was extraordinary. Like a living organism, the city lay before me in all its glory, as alive with the throbbing sights and sounds of life as it had been when Asher first walked these streets two thousand years ago . . .
I will be your God throughout your lifetime—until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.
The words crept into my mind, softly, like the poet says, on little cat feet. I don’t know where they originated or why they crept into my consciousness, but they brought comfort in their wake.
It would be wonderful to believe as Asher did. To know that life had purpose, no matter how short or long, and that no matter what happened, God remained in control.
Signor Pace believed like that. That wise man had found happiness in something as simple as caring for a tiny church and the neighborhood’s feline population . . . and I envied him.
If I could believe like that, I might be able to accept Rory’s death and the loss of Kirsten’s baby. I might never cease to mourn what might have been, but I’d know that evil couldn’t separate us forever and that I’d see them again.
My childhood Sunday school teacher had been fond of teaching about heaven. She’d taught us prayers like “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .” I smiled as I flipped through my memory file for the rest of the prayer. Of course—“And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
God had taken Kirsten’s baby to heaven. He hadn’t caused the accident, but he was sheltering that child, and the accident had drawn Sean and Kirsten closer together. God had also taken Rory, and now Jesus was comforting Alice. I didn’t understand how, but she did.
Yet for some reason God had steadfastly refused to take Asher’s soul . . . why? So he would be here when Justus rose to power? Or so he would be here when I needed him?
A stone bench stood at the edge of the avenue, and I sat down, keeping my gaze fixed to the horizon. As a child, I had marveled at views like this. Every sunset filled my heart with ecstasy, and sunrise was a time of magic and unexpected delight. Kirsten always told me that every morning God opened his paint box and painted the colors of a new day. I believed her, just like I believed her story about thunder coming from God’s bowling alley. I also believed everything the Sunday school teacher said, often taking her literally. When she explained that we put money in the offering plate in order to give it to God, I assumed the dark-suited men who took the overflowing plates down to the Communion table were like the priests in the Old Testament stories. Since I knew they couldn’t very well take the money outside and toss it up to heaven, I figured they burned it, like the animal sacrifices, so God would smell the smoke and declare the offering a sweet scent . . .
But then I grew up and learned the difference between imagination and reality. I gave up sunrises in order to sleep late; schoolwork and studies filled my sunset hours. I learned that rapidly expanding air along the path of an electrical discharge of lightning created thunder, and I realized that no one in his or her right mind would burn money to please God. No, the money went to very practical, realistic needs: electricity, flowers for the altar table, and the pastor’s salary.
My world shifted on its axis; my daydreams vanished, replaced by five-year goals and to-do lists. A pocket organizer replaced my girlish diary; meetings replaced my hours of contemplation. I didn’t mind, for the person I became earned praises and awards and the admiration of her peers. I began to consider myself the ultimate pragmatist. Independent, self-contained, cool under pressure, and very private, I didn’t need anyone and I certainly didn’t need God. I wasn’t interested in changing other people, and I didn’t want anyone to change me.
Until now.
A faint wind sighed through the trees, and in its breath I felt my spirit stretch and soar. If nothing else, Asher had taught me to look beyond myself and my physical boundaries, to broaden my thinking. Through his eyes I had glimpsed a world that stretched like this panorama, from ancient history to a foreseeable future. Through his conviction I had begun to accept that it was all part of God’s plan. In the beginning he created man, in the center of time he sent the One who would atone for all, and in the end he would set things right. And throughout the marvelous and varied tapestry of time, the simple scarlet cord of love ran like the foundation thread on a weaver’s loom.
A wry smile tugged at the corners of my lips. God must have known I’d be a tough nut to crack. Into my world he first sent Rory, who lived a quiet and steady life of faith. When that didn’t impress me, God sent the one person on earth who would pit my abilities against my reason. My eyes and ears told me Asher spoke the truth; my mind had never been able to believe it. With such a contest raging in my brain, it’s a wonder I didn’t need psychological help!
Behind me, the sun was coming down the sky but hadn’t yet reached the row of pines that topped the hill. Watching the lengthening shadows, I exhaled a long sigh of contentment.
“God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son . . .”
My mind ran backward, picking up the strings of time. I think I learned that snippet of Scripture in the little wooden church where Kirsten and I were baptized as babies. I thought I was a Christian back then—after all, weren’t all Americans? But later, when I thought I had grown too old for Bible stories and Sunday school songs, I put my spiritual training away, like a box of outgrown garments.
“Show me the way back, God.”
In the distance, far beyond the gleaming man-made monuments, the wind herded dull-gray clouds over the mountains like a shepherd gathering in his wayward sheep. I lifted my chin and closed my eyes. “God—Signor Pace said you would give me salvation if I ask for it. So I’m asking. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do or say, but I chose to believe in Asher, and now I’d like to believe in you.”
When I opened my eyes again, a little boy, probably three or four, stood at the end of my bench with a finger in his mouth. He looked at me with wide, curious eyes.
One corner of my mouth lifted in a smile. “I believe,” I told the toddler, not caring whether or not he understood. It just felt good to say it.
The child looked away, then turned and ran off, calling for his mama.
I hunched into my jacket and scanned the wide horizon, not wanting to alarm the boy’s parents. I wasn’t a crazy American. For the first time in years, I felt I had found a way home.