Just as jet-lag and the day's excitement began to catch up with her, Sister Agatha was relieved to discover that the parade temporarily put the brakes on proceedings. Porter was assisted from the carriage and led up onto the stage as everyone else made their way into the large park in front of it. The official who, earlier in the day, had added a touch of green to her habit, invited Sister Agatha to take a seat in the front row. Delighted to put her tired trotters up for a brief moment, she gladly accepted and slumped down on one of the chairs—all the while keeping a close eye on her mark to ensure he didn't do anything to hinder her perfect plan.
The atmosphere reached fever pitch when Porter took centre-stage and, allowing a moment for the crowd to settle, the legendary musician took a trumpet to his mouth. What followed, Sister Agatha could only describe as absolutely magical. For five minutes, the one-time jazz virtuoso dismissed the unfortunate ramifications of age and cast a spell on the thousands of admirers who had now bundled into the venue, including one particular Irish nun.
At home, Sister Agatha had always relished the Sunday services that involved beautiful musical interludes from the local choir, but anything she had enjoyed in the past paled in comparison to what she experienced today. In fact, she was positive that the trumpet was an extension of Porter or, even better, that they were one.
Sister Agatha hadn't danced since that fateful night in the Kilberry Community Hall all those years ago but, despite her tiredness, she found herself tapping her feet and having the hankering to jump up and trip the light fantastic. She looked around, wondering if anyone else might share similar inclinations to transform the space into a makeshift dance hall. Unfortunately, everyone remained in situ, with the bob of a head or a clap of the hands the extent of their merriment.
“Not to worry,” she thought, and rose to her feet regardless.
That she was the antithesis of Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova didn't prevent her from creating all sorts of outlandish shapes—and what a wonderful way to stretch out following so many hours ensconced on so many planes!
While some of those seated around her struggled to refrain from laughing and pointing, others found her free spirit inspiring. Maybe thanks to the copious amounts of alcoholic beverages they had consumed earlier in the day, they jumped up and joined Sister Agatha in the revelry.
Porter Williams may have been making a splash on stage, but it seemed that it was now Sister Agatha who was the real star of the show. What’s more, the old doll would be the first to admit that she relished every single moment of it.
* * *
It had been several years since Porter had performed in front of a crowd of this magnitude. In fact, it had been quite some time since he had performed at all. Following the death of Vondra, his beloved wife, Porter, who was eighty-seven at the time, didn’t have the appetite to play any longer. Despite protests from his long-serving manager, his vast collection of instruments sat idle in his basement studio, gathering dust and surviving on memories alone.
While public appearances were few and far between, his music and legacy lived on. His legion of fans quietly hoped that someday he would reunite with the stage, although as the years passed, it had become increasingly unlikely.
Then Porter became the victim of a nasty betrayal. It transpired that his butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth accountant had been helping himself to Porter’s savings, and on a wet January morning, the one-time millionaire discovered that there wasn’t a red cent left. Not a sausage. Faced with the prospect of losing the house he and Vondra had made a home, with nothing left to leave his many grandchildren and great-children, the performer had no other option but to return to the music scene.
Having turned down numerous invitations to be the Grand Marshal for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade, Porter finally agreed. Reluctant to simply strut through the city in some ridiculous carriage, the one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old suggested incorporating a musical recital into the itinerary—an offer that was music to the ears of the organisers (as well as the ears of his manager—the fee tripled there and then!).
The week leading up to the event, doubts started to creep in. At his age, having lungs that still functioned was an achievement in itself; making any further demands other than that might prove to be a little ambitious and even ungrateful. However, seeing as it was probably going to be his last opportunity to have the attention of an audience that size, Porter decided to persevere.
As he stood on the stage today, in full flight, he was happier than he had been in years, somewhat aided by the sight of a nun who, as far as his shoddy eyesight could tell, was similar in age, and dancing as if there were burning coals in her unusually large loafers.
“Look at what you’ve been missing out on, kiddo!” Porter joked to himself.
And by the looks of things, he wasn't the only one who was full of admiration for this sprightly sister; a large band of admirers had formed around her and were energetically spurring on the fabulous showgirl.
Who was this beautiful soul, busy captivating all around her?
Curious to a fault, Porter gestured towards security waiting in the wings to bring her up on stage.
* * *
At first, Sister Agatha thought the two burly uniformed men who approached her were going to reprimand her for being a health and safety hazard, but when she detected a couple of disarming smiles on their faces, the knots in her stomach began to untangle.
“Porter would love it if you would join him on stage,” one said, offering her his hand.
Sister Agatha’s little troop of supporters clapped and nodded their heads in encouragement. Swept away by the occasion, she threw caution to the Windy City and allowed the security officers to lead her up the steps and onto the stage where she was met with a cacophony of cheering from the thousands now crammed into the park. As she caught a glimpse of a giant version of herself on the screens positioned either side of the stage, she thought it ridiculous—yet absolutely fabulous at the same time! Porter gestured for her to join him centre-stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted into the microphone. “There is no doubt that this magical lady has rhythm, after seeing her cut a rug just now, but what I really want to know is, can she work her way around a trumpet just as well?”
Up until now, the extent of Sister Agatha's musical escapades had been limited to a bit of self-conscious tambourine playing during some celebrations in the early nineties to commemorate the Order’s three-hundred-year anniversary—and her participation only occurred because the Mother Superior at the time was adamant that everyone became involved in the festivities in some shape or form. (Sister Veronica, on the other hand, who doubled as the choir's conductor, was never one to give much weight to that maxim about what counts is the taking part, and insisted that Sister Agatha mime her contributions due to her ineptness. In Sister Agatha’s defence, the harsh winter that they had experienced that year had created chaos with the novice musician's arthritis.)
Before she could even contemplate refusing the offer, Porter played a long, low note. He then handed the trumpet to his new buddy.
“Do you think you could repeat what I have just played, Sister?”
Whether she liked it or not, it appeared that their duet had started. Reluctantly, she accepted the instrument but feared that she would drop it, such was its weight. Seeing her struggle, Porter gave her a helping hand. Sister Agatha refused to allow herself to be seduced by the charm of her new friend; if she did, it would make the act that she was due to carry out on top of that skyscraper next to impossible, and that just wouldn’t do.
She blew the trumpet, but the sound that emerged was similar to that made by an elephant—one in extreme pain at that.
“Here, let me show you again, Sister,” Porter said, before demonstrating what was required to make a more sonically appealing note.
But as she was receiving her spontaneous music lesson, Sister Agatha's focus began to drift away from the impromptu music lesson and return to th
e task at hand: taking out her adversary.
“What a fantastic weapon that trumpet would make!” she boldly thought to herself.
Her busy mind started to whir. All she’d have to do, she reckoned, would be to raise the piece of equipment above the songbird, and then muster up a little energy before swinging it across the back of his head. What’s more, she was even warmed up following her lively dancing earlier. Yes, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.
Except for one thing: the eyes of the city were on her.
In a matter of seconds, Sister Agatha could be another rung up the ladder in her quest to become the oldest person in the world, but if she were to pursue this particular course of action, she would soon find herself spending the remaining few days she had left incarcerated in some God-forsaken hovel, with a bunch of gold-toothed, tattoo-covered convicts as her only company. There would be nothing gallant or glorious about that, she suspected. No, she must bide her time and stick to the original plan on which she had already signed off.
The euphoria of being this revered musician's ingénue had now quickly worn thin—and her feet felt overworked and exhausted. Without so much as an attempt to blow another, more favorable note, she handed the trumpet back to Porter and marched off the stage.
While the spotlight was certainly appealing, Sister Agatha knew deep down that she didn't have the temperament to be anyone’s sidekick.
Chapter Seven
Jamel Chakchouk was Tunisian-born with notions above his station. The strikingly handsome, vainglorious playboy wanted to live in a castle, but not one made of sand. His mobile phone was awash with personal images showcasing his impressive physique, while his head was filled with dreams and fantasies about being the leading man of some international reality show or other.
Jamel’s immeasurable obsession with himself meant that he was the source of constant mockery within his small community, not that he paid much attention to their juvenile jeering.
“One day, I’ll have the last laugh,” he reminded himself over and over again.
On the morning of his twenty-fifth birthday, fed-up with living life as “a peasant”, the determined fellow kissed his extremely elderly great-grandmother, Tayri, as she slept, and finally fled from his home in the Sahara Desert.
After spending a few months in various resorts along the coast, Jamel had soon gathered enough money to buy himself a one-way ticket to Chicago. He had gathered the price of his fare, not through hard work in bars or restaurants, but by taking advantage of lonely–and rich–middle-aged British women holidaying in the country. He would fill them with sweet nothings before emptying their bulging purses.
In Chicago, Jamel eventually found lodgings in Pilsen, a vibrant suburb of the city that was extremely popular with immigrants. Quickly settling in, American life was everything that he imagined it would be: diverse, prosperous, and overflowing with opportunities and possibilities.
Within weeks of his arrival, the confident go-getter met Rita Flood, an up-and-coming politician who was out canvassing the area one evening. For the first time, he had met a woman of whom he didn’t want to take advantage. Here was a woman who was attractive, fearless, and well on her way to fame and fortune. He thrived on the fact that she was also ruthlessly ambitious; in her, he had met his match. A passionate affair soon began between the pair.
All day long, Jamel occupied his time imagining himself with Rita in the White House, decked out in the latest designer outfits, being photographed by Annie Leibovitz and appearing on the front cover of Vanity Fair or Men’s Health (his pecks continued to be in great shape!). What he didn’t realise until much later was that while he spent his day in cloud-cuckoo-land, Rita spent hers with her husband and three children.
Foolishly, Jamel believed the promising politician when she said that she would leave her family and that they would start afresh together. As it turned out, the opposite happened. On the advice of her party, who was hell-bent on selling her as the reliable family woman who recycled, loved animals and went to Mass every Sunday, Rita eventually called a halt on the couple’s dangerous liaison, leaving poor Jamel heartbroken.
And hungry.
Every day and every night, the once-lean head-turner feasted on triple portions of tajine, couscous, asida—anything that reminded him of home. How he rued the day he ever left the desert, but having revealed his plight to them one drunken night, Jamel quickly discovered that he was now no longer welcome there. Soon, his heart was not just broken; it was on the verge of an attack.
While he never lost his appetite, the inconsolable young man happily lost all dignity and self-respect, and commenced a campaign of his own to stalk his former flame at every chance. Wherever Rita was, the now whale-like Jamel loitered usually only metres away. In the end, the politician was forced to take out a restraining order against him (“What a shame, he used to be so attentive to my needs!”).
But that piece of paper was as much use as a bucket of spit, because a man in love would put Isaac Newton to shame in terms of inventiveness. When the Saint Patrick’s Day Festival arrived, unbeknownst to Rita, Jamel stood a short distance away from her in the Willis Tower. He had managed to convince the official photographer that her images would be sure to make the front pages of the papers if there was someone dressed in a quirky costume standing next to that old fogey, Porter Williams. The photographer thought the idea was juvenile, but she could never say no to anyone and acquiesced.
And so, on the hundred-and-third floor of the famous skyscraper, an eclectic group gathered to toast the success of the day’s events, including Grand Marshal Porter Williams; the agile dancer who had turned her nose up at being his apprentice, Sister Agatha; the adulterous Rita Flood; the I-say-yes-to-everybody photographer; and around two-hundred officials—not to mention a giant, life-sized pot of gold, who planned to do something extremely dangerous with the help of a gun.
* * *
The lift, or elevator, that Sister Agatha took to the hundred-and-third floor, lasted only sixty seconds. Initially, she was grateful for its briskness, anxious to complete her task and board the evening flight to her third destination. But as soon as the pressure of the altitude became apparent, she felt a little queasy and annoyed that there weren't a more sensitive means of travelling to those lofty heights.
In its former incarnation as the Sears Tower, this never-ending skyscraper was once the tallest in the world, she and the delegation were told as they made their way to an impressive observation area called Skydeck. There, a few years earlier, three glass balconies, dubbed the Ledge, had been added, offering daredevil visitors the opportunity to look through the glass floor onto the street one-thousand-three-hundred-and-fifty-three feet below. And it was onto one of those perilous ledges that Porter Williams was going to step, where he was expected to drink a pint of Guinness while toasting Ireland and its adopted son, Saint Patrick.
“I hope you’re not afraid of heights, Porter,” one of the officials teased while leading him towards the location in question.
“I might need more than one pint to calm the nerves,” the Grand Marshal replied, unaware that should Sister Agatha have her way, that second libation would be consumed at the pearly white gates.
While she was no crackerjack when it came to engineering, Sister Agatha was certain those who were had used sturdy panes of glass that would be more than able to withstand the weight of this slight trumpeter. To achieve success, she felt that something hefty would be needed to stand alongside him as he enjoyed his final taste of stout—something bulky enough to shatter the glass beneath him and wipe him out once and for all.
She dismissed her suggestion of pushing a chair or a table out onto the glass box—neither would be adequate for what was needed (and she was sure that rearranging the furniture in such a manner would be frowned upon, and she had no intention of abusing her host’s hospitality).
She then investigated the possibility of pretending that a deadly spider was on the loose, which migh
t lead to a few faint-hearted cry-babies running for cover on the glass ledge alongside Porter. For this to work, Sister Agatha needed those participants to have a significant build, and even though she had heard that Americans enjoyed their generous portions of food, around her, everyone appeared to be skin and bone.
Except for one—a man who had truly gotten into the spirit of the occasion by dressing up as a pot of gold. That he managed to fit in the elevator in the first place, Sister Agatha thought was an achievement in itself—such was the width of this strikingly-dressed man.
But, before she entertained the idea any further, Sister Agatha stopped herself in her tracks. While she needed to dispose of her rival Porter Williams, she wasn’t too crazy about there being any casualties of war, and by the looks of things, this hefty party-goer had enough problems to negotiate without having to contend with being dead as well. No, she needed to keep collateral damages to a minimum.
It was when she started to investigate other solutions to her predicament that the pot of gold announced to the room that he had a gun in his possession and demanded that everyone pay attention. Sister Agatha thought that the organisers would be most disappointed that all the hard graft that had gone into making the day so successful would now be tarnished by this person’s ill-timed act of terrorism.
* * *
Even though Porter had fought in two World Wars, a look of abject terror ransacked his face when Jamel stepped out onto the Ledge and placed the weapon on his head—not on account of the fact that he was being held at gunpoint, but because he suspected that the glass under their feet wasn’t going to be able to withstand the weight of this new, unexpected addition. Like many people when they reached a certain age, Porter had spent time wondering how he would finally die, but not even in his wildest dreams did he consider his exit would be like this.
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