by Erich Segal
“What?” George said with amazement.
“You’d better sit down. It’s a long story.”
George listened intently to the narrative of Tim’s inner journey with Hardt as his guide. At the end he was deeply moved.
“To be honest, I don’t know what to say. A part of me wanted to see you on St. Peter’s throne. But another part of me thinks what you’re doing is worthy of sainthood. Do you want me to help you find a teaching job in the States?”
“No, George. I think I’m taking a sabbatical from the Church.”
“To do what?”
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency. The only clue I can give you is that my motivation is I John 4:8. Thanks for everything. God bless you.”
As the line went dead, George Cavanagh quoted the gospel passage half-aloud: “ ‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God—For God is love.’ ”
He pondered for a moment and then thought to himself, I hope it’s someone as pious and pretty as that girl I saw you with in Jerusalem.
82
Deborah
Eli eyed the visitor to his srif with suspicion.
“Are you her son?” the stranger asked.
He was tall and tanned, his hair bleached white from the sun. Yet he clearly did not belong here, for he spoke hesitantly—in awkward American-accented Hebrew.
“Would you prefer to speak English?” Eli inquired.
“Yes, thank you,” said the man. “I’m a bit rusty in the holy language. May I come in?”
Though a moody teenager, Eli was never impolite. Yet there was something about this visitor that grated, something that annoyed him. He replied in a surly tone to discourage the man.
“My mother isn’t here. She doesn’t get back from teaching till after five.”
“Oh, she teaches?” said the visitor.
“Why are you asking all these questions?” Eli challenged him.
“Because I’m an old friend,” the American asserted. “And I’ve come a long way to see her.”
“What do you call ‘long’?” the boy demanded.
“Would Brazil impress you?” The man smiled.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. Now if I said ‘please’ in Portuguese, would you let me come in? You’re being pretty rude.”
“Yes,” Eli conceded, “I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just … I wasn’t expecting anyone. Would you like a coffee or a Coke?”
“Have you got anything stronger?”
“Well,” the boy remarked sarcastically, “if you need something really strong, you can get a beer in the canteen.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take the coffee if it isn’t too much trouble.”
Eli deliberately turned his back to start the electric kettle and to allow himself time to absorb the shock he had sustained. He hoped he had camouflaged it, but looking inward, he could not see the stranger eyeing him with wonder.
Nor could he imagine that the visitor was thinking, I know this boy. Not just because he has traces of Deborah’s features—there’s something more. I recognize his manner.
As Eli opened the cabinet and reached for the can of instant coffee, he glanced at the yellowed newspaper clipping that Deborah had hung inside the door. It was already as brittle as an autumn leaf.
He examined the photograph. It confirmed his suspicions. Then, still without turning, he asked, “Do you take sugar, Father?”
“One spoon, thank you. How did you know I was a priest? Is it that obvious, even in a sport shirt?”
Eli spun around.
“Oh, you don’t look like a priest,” he said, fixing the man with a level stare. “You look more like an archbishop to me.”
“Really?” The visitor was taken aback, but resolved to engage this feisty youth at his own game. “Do you have many archbishops dropping by your kibbutz?”
“No,” the boy answered. “You’re actually the first. But it just so happens my father’s in that business.”
The stranger’s expression froze. He was barely able to find words.
“You’re not serious.”
“Yes,” Eli retorted acerbically. “It appears you weren’t.”
Now they stared at one another in silence, each seeing his own blue eyes in the face of the other.
“She never told me,” Timothy murmured.
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.” Tim’s reply came from the very fiber of his being. “It would have mattered very much.”
“Well, you’re a little late, Reverend—you’ve even missed my bar mitzvah. But then of course you couldn’t have been called to the Torah, anyway.”
All right, Tim thought, recovering his self-possession now, I can give as good as I get.
“Listen, boychik, I can quote the Bible as well as you,” he said.
“In Hebrew?”
“And Aramaic. And Syriac, if necessary. And while we’re at it, when’s the last time you studied the Dead Sea Scrolls?”
Eli was suddenly off balance.
There was a moment of mutual hesitation.
“Does my mother know you’re coming?”
“No,” Tim answered. “Until a few days ago I didn’t know myself.”
It was only when Tim said the words aloud that the full impact of their reality struck him. Seventy-two hours earlier he had stood at a crossroads in his life. He had served God with all his heart, and yet the hope of Heaven still could not fill the void. He knew he needed Deborah. He had always needed Deborah. But was it not presumptuous after all this time to assume that she would feel the same?
“How long are you staying?” the boy asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether … your mother is … happy to see me.”
“She won’t be—if she has any sense. She deserves a real husband, not some kind of Christian astronaut who flies to earth every ten years or so.”
“Fourteen,” the older man corrected him, adding, “And you deserve a real father.”
The boy shrugged. “I’ve done pretty well without one. What were you doing in Brazil, anyway?”
“That’s certainly changing the subject,” Tim remarked with amusement.
“Well what do you expect?” Eli said angrily, his voice breaking. “You waltz in here like the prophet Elijah and expect me to be happy to see you? Where the hell were you while I was growing up?”
He was nearly in tears.
Deeply moved, Tim wanted to embrace him.
“Please,” he murmured, afraid to open his arms lest he crush this fragile being who was his own son. “Please don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” Eli shouted. “Can’t you see I’m pissed off? I’m mad as hell at you for walking out on my mother! You don’t know what she’s been through.”
“And you?” Tim asked softly. “I can imagine you’ve been through a lot, too.”
“How?” Eli asked petulantly.
“Because I knew a young boy not unlike you who also had to grow up without a father—”
“Another one of yours?”
“No, I’m not interested in overpopulating the planet.” He paused, then added urgently, “I never knew I had you. I swear I never knew—until I walked in here.”
“You don’t ‘have’ me. I’m not a package you can store and pick up when you want to. I’m a human being.”
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Eli.”
“As in Psalm Twenty-two, ‘Eli, Eli lama azavtani—’ ”
“Very clever, Archbishop. But if you’ve come to convert me, forget it.”
“All I’ve come for is that cup of coffee.”
Without a word, Eli turned, fetched the now-lukewarm mug, and brought it to his guest—who was staring at a photograph of Deborah holding a six-week-old baby. Eli was tempted to make a caustic remark, but something in the man’s expression stopped him.
“How long till your mother gets home?” Tim asked, a slight tremor in his voice.
“I don’t know,” Eli responded. “Maybe half an hour. Were you planning to leave before that?”
“No—I was just wondering if you’d like to kick a football around.”
“If you want,” Eli said with an elaborate shrug. “There’s always a game on the kibbutz field around now. In a half hour you can get your fair share of bruises.”
“I think I can handle myself,” Tim replied. “Where can I change?”
“In there,” Eli pointed to the bedroom. “Do you need to borrow anything?”
“No, thanks.” He suddenly smiled. “In fact I’ve got an outfit that’ll knock your socks off.”
“Don’t tell me,” the boy scoffed. “Your archbishop’s suit?”
“Better than that. You’ll see.”
Moments later, Tim reemerged in the shiny blue uniform of the Brazilian soccer team. As the boy gasped, “Wow,” the door opened.
“Eli,” Deborah began. “What’s going on? Whose car is that—?”
And then she saw him.
“My God.”
They stared at each other. There were no words. Even after all this time, each knew exactly what the other was thinking.
“Deborah,” he whispered at last. “You can’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment.”
“Me too,” she answered softly. “Only I didn’t think it would be in this world.” She turned to her son. “Have you met—”
“This is stupid,” Eli cut her off, in a blustering attempt to disguise his feelings. “I’m going to get the hell out of here before things get too sentimental.”
He raced out, trying to hold back his own tears.
They were alone. The two of them, after a million days and nights.
“Deborah, he’s wonderful. You should be very proud.”
“And you—?”
“Do I have the right? Love has to be earned. I haven’t exactly been a frequent visitor.”
“You never left my thoughts,” she said, unafraid.
“Nor you mine,” he confessed. “And I finally decided not to take the risk.…”
“What do you mean?”
“The leap of faith—the hope of being with you in the next life. I’d trade it all for being here right now.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you think we can start again?”
“No, my beloved.” She smiled. “We’ll just continue.”
To Karen, Francesca, and Miranda
… who sustain my faith
Acknowledgments
In the beginning there were words. Too many of them—and all in the wrong places. Linda Grey somehow found time while running a publishing house to put order into the chaos of my original manuscript. She is a brilliant and imaginative editor.
All roads may lead to Rome—and Jerusalem, for that matter. But they only bring you to the gates. I owe many debts to people who gave me access literally and spiritually to these great citadels of religion.
His Eminence Roger Cardinal Etchegaray, President of the Pontifical Council of Justice and Peace, welcomed a stranger to the Vatican, affording me a picture of life at the center of power I could not otherwise have obtained. His resourceful assistant, Sister Marjorie Keegan, provided informative documents while at the same time proving a surprising treasury of anecdotes about New York Jewish life.
Father Jacques Roubert, S.J., Regional Secretary in the Western European Assistancy of the General Curia, welcomed me to the world Jesuit headquarters at 5 Borgo Santo Spirito and gave me an understanding of the Society of Jesus that added a third dimension to everything I subsequently read.
I am grateful to Mishkenot Sha’ananim, a very special haven for those in the Arts, for allowing me to be their guest and absorb the unique atmosphere of Jerusalem.
Rabbi Hugo Gryn and his former associate, Rabbi Larry Tabick, read through the drafts to ferret out doctrinal lapses. I was reassured on certain points by Rabbi Doctor Louis Jacobs. Needless to say, any errors that remain are the result of my own stubbornness or carelessness.
Reverend Donald Doherty, M.M., of the Maryknoll Society and Reverend Michael Hilbert, S.J., of the Gregorian University provided helpful information regarding education for the priesthood.
The astonishing lapse from celibacy among the American Catholic clergy is documented by A. W. Richard Sipe in A Secret World: Sexuality and the Search for Celibacy, New York 1990.
I am also grateful to Reverend Edgar Wells, Rector of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, New York City, and Miss Susan Rybarchyk for the Protestant viewpoint on certain issues; Ms. Irma Rabino and Rabbi Rhonda Nebel of the Jewish Theological Seminary (where I myself was briefly a student in the early 1950s); and Dr. Philip Miller and Ms. Sylvia Posner of Hebrew Union College.
Mr. Peter Govett and Mr. Howard Levine provided invaluable financial expertise. I am also indebted to Rita Antilety, Reverend Malcolm Foster, Don Galligan, Tonya Gomez, and Professor T. J. Luce.
I have had the privilege of talking to many truly remarkable individuals who confided their experiences to me, seminarians who understandably wish to remain anonymous and various members of the American Catholic Establishment, among them one whose pedigree includes the first American Catholic bishop as well as the first American-born saint, Mother Elizabeth Ann Seton.
Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Courtney—formerly Father Pat and Sister Margarita—shared with me their story of faith and love, which deserves a volume of its own.
It would be impossible to list a full bibliography of everything I consulted during the four years I spent writing this book. But I should signal my debt to the Catholic Encyclopedia and the Encyclopaedia Judaica, Penny Lernoux’s People of God, The Jesuits by Malachi Martin, and Hayyim Schauss’s The Lifetime of a Jew.
And, of course, the most important book of all, the Holy Bible.
E.S. Oxford, 1991
Bantam Books by Erich Segal
ACTS OF FAITH
THE CLASS
DOCTORS
LOVE STORY
MAN, WOMAN, AND CHILD
OLIVER’S STORY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ERICH SEGAL began his writing career with the phenomenally successful Love Story. He has written six other novels, including The Class, which was an international bestseller and won literary prizes in France and Italy. Doctors reached number one on the New York Times bestseller list. His latest book is Prizes. Erich Segal has also written widely on Greek and Latin literature—subjects he has taught at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Oxford. He is married and has two daughters.
