by Ted Dekker
But he wrote on. And that was a good thing because he was wrong.
He finished the book in June of 1956.
It was published in 1959.
It topped the New York Times bestseller list in April of 1960.
“There are times to forget, Ivena. Times like today. Times when love tells us that it’s worth even death.”
She turned to him. “So your surprise today has to do with love? Don’t tell me you’re going to ask her?”
Janjic grinned, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m not saying a thing. It wouldn’t be a surprise then, would it?”
She humphed, but her lips curved with a small grin. “So love is in the air, is it? My, my. We can’t seem to escape it.”
“Love has always been in the air, Ivena. From that first day. Today I begin a new journey of love.”
She smiled now. “You have much to learn about love, Janjic. We all do.”
THE HOTEL’S grand ballroom was crowded with well-wishers, sipping punch and smiling in small groups an hour later. Seven tables with white embroidered tablecloths and tall red candles hosted enough shrimp and artichoke hearts to feed a convention. Three large crystal chandeliers hung from the burgundy domed ceiling, but it was Karen who shone brightly tonight, Jan thought. If not now then in a few minutes.
He watched her work the guests as only the best publicists could—gentle and sweet, yet so very persuasive. She wore an elegant red dress that flattered her trim figure. Her lips parted in a smile at something Barney Givens had said. She was with the leaders in the group—she always gravitated toward the power players, dazzling them with her intelligence. The twinkle in her brown eyes didn’t hurt, of course. The subtle curve of her soft neck, stretched in laughter as it was now, did not impede her influence either. Not at all.
Working as the publicist for one of New York’s largest publishing houses, Karen had come to one of his appearances at the ABC studios, more out of curiosity than anything, she’d said. The image of the pretty brunette sitting on the front row stayed with Jan for weeks, perhaps because hers were the most intelligent questions asked of him that night. Evidently the experience had impacted her deeply and she’d read his entire book late into that night. Exactly one month later they met again, at a lecture upstate, and this time Roald’s scheming had come into play. Three months later she’d left New York for Atlanta, intent on igniting a new fire under The Dance of the Dead. They’d hired her as both agent and publicist, on a freelance basis. The brilliant publicist five years his junior had sparked a second wind to a waning message that launched the book into its third printing. Then its fourth, and its fifth and its sixth printing, each one expanding to meet the demand she had almost single-handedly created for his story.
Ivena might be right when she suggested that Karen was a highbrow woman, as she put it, but in many respects Jan owed his career to her highbrow brilliance.
Karen suddenly turned her head and caught his stare. He blushed and smiled. She winked and addressed Barney without missing a beat. This time Barney and Frank beside him both threw back their heads in laughter.
Jan leaned against the head table, admiring her. At times like this she could make his knees weak, he thought.
Ivena stood across the room talking to the ministry’s accountant, Lorna. She wore a simple yellow-flowered dress that accented her grandmotherly look. But Jan was deceived by neither her white hair nor her gentle smile. They weren’t talking cross-stitching over there—Ivena never talked of such trifles. Drink her words deep, Lorna.
To his right, a camera crew scanned the audience; Roald had invited them when Jan confessed his idea. His surprise.
“It’s perfect publicity. They’ll love it,” he’d said.
“Now you’re the publicist?”
“No, but we can’t very well consult Karen, can we?”
“The whole world will know,” Jan protested.
“Exactly. That’s the point. You’re the voice of love. Now you show some love of your own. It’s perfect!”
“Who then?”
“ABC. I can talk to John Mathews about getting it on the news.”
Jan couldn’t have talked Roald out of it if he’d wanted to. The ABC crew was filming, and adding their commentary at leisure. It was now or never.
He picked up a fork, took a deep breath, and struck the side of his glass. The chime cut through the scattered conversation. He struck it again, and the din died down.
The camera had already swung to face him.
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to see you all here tonight. Thank you for coming.” Jan’s heart stomped through his chest. Roald was right: The world’s eyes were on him.
He turned to face Karen, who smiled unsuspectingly beside Frank and Roald. “Most of you probably think my book, The Dance of the Dead, has forever changed my life. And you would be right. You might think that it’s a culmination of a life, but there you would be wrong. It’s only a beginning. I am, after all, still a young man.”
Chuckles rippled through the room. Jan caught Ivena’s eye.
“Ivena tells me that I have much to learn of love.” He winked at her and she graciously dipped her head. “And she’s right. I stand before you—before all of my friends, before the world—with the hopes of beginning a new journey into the heart of love tonight. A journey that will complete me.”
Betty, their correspondence manager, gave a motherly smile and cast a look toward Karen. Some of them had guessed already, of course. His affections for Karen were hardly a secret.
“She came to us three years ago. She’s brilliant and kind. She is breathtaking and she is stunning. But more than any of those, Karen makes me a man, I think. And I make her a woman.”
Jan’s coworkers had all but begged for this moment for over a year now. He could see their eyes brighten in the periphery of his vision. He stretched an inviting hand toward Karen. She moved through the crowd without removing her eyes from his. They were misted now, he thought. She reached him and took his hand. He bent and kissed it lightly.
Over her shoulder, he saw that even Ivena smiled wide.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Karen said in a low voice.
“Believe it,” he returned quietly.
When he straightened, the small black box was in his hand, withdrawn from his pocket while bent. He snapped it open. A three-carat diamond solitaire sparkled in its black velvet perch. Someone gasped nearby—perhaps Lorna, who stood not five feet from them. Yes, it was rather extravagant. But then so was Karen.
She was smiling unabashedly now.
He held the box out to her and looked in her eyes. “Karen, will you take a journey with me? Will you give me your hand in marriage?”
A heavy silence gripped the room. The sound of ABC’s camera hummed steadily.
A twinkle lit her eyes. “You’re asking me to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“You want to spend your life with me?”
“Yes.” He swallowed.
She dropped her eyes to the box and reached for it. Her hand held a slight tremble, Jan saw. She’s going to . . .
Suddenly he didn’t know what she was going to do. You never quite knew with Karen. She ignored the ring, uttered a little shriek and threw herself at him. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pulled him tight.
“Yes! Yes, I will.”
He nearly dropped the box, but managed to snap it closed in his palm. Karen kissed him pointedly on the lips—more of a ceremonious display than an expression of passion. She drew back and winked at him. Then she immediately took the ring box from him, turned to face the camera and held it up proudly. The hall erupted with applause, nicely accented with catcalls and hoots of approval.
The next half-hour wandered by in a hazy dream for Jan. They all congratulated him and Karen, one by one. Interviews were held and camera bulbs flashed. Karen was glowing.
Roald approached them, smiling wide as the rounds of congratulations died down. “I couldn’t
offer more joy, my friends.” He put a hand on each of their shoulders. “It’s a perfect day for the perfect couple.”
“Thank you, Roald,” Karen said, dipping her head. She glanced at Jan with a twinkle in her eye. “I couldn’t imagine more myself.”
Roald chuckled. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind entertaining the guests for a few minutes, Karen, the leaders would like to speak with Jan. We won’t take him for long, I promise.”
“Don’t leave me stranded too long.”
“You? Stranded? The cameras are still here, Karen. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make use of them.”
“I’ll be right with you, Roald,” Jan said.
The man hesitated and then stepped back. “Take your time.” He walked from them.
“So we’re really doing this, are we?” Karen asked.
Jan faced her, grinning. “Evidently. How does it feel?”
“It feels like it should, I think. Having the cameras here was a perfect touch. Your idea?”
“Roald’s.”
“I thought so. Good man.”
“Yes.” He glanced around and saw that the company was mostly engaged. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Congratulations,” he said.
For a moment they stood in silence. She reached up and straightened his tie, a small habit she performed too routinely. “You’re such a handsome man. I’m so proud of you.”
“I meant what I said, you know? Every word.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, I do know, Mr. Jovic. And I meant what I said.”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
He smiled and nodded. “Yes you did. Now if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes while I take care of Roald and his friends.”
“Take your time,” she said.
He left her and angled for the meeting room across the hall. Roald intercepted him. They walked past a dozen guests, nodding graciously. “They’re waiting already,” Roald said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the moment but Barney has a flight in two hours and Bob promised his grandson a trip to the theater tonight.”
“Ivena?”
“She’s waiting as well,” Roald said with grin.
“Good,” Jan said. They entered the meeting room and closed the door on the noisy hall.
IVENA SAT adjacent to Janjic, listening to the scene unfold with a hubbub of monotony before her. They sat around the oval table, seven gray-haired evangelical icons from all corners of the country, sober yet delighted at once, staring at Janjic, their prize, who sat awkwardly at the head. They’d spent the first round congratulating him on the engagement and were getting down to the real meat. At least that was how Ivena saw the setting.
Janjic held himself in a distinguished manner—he could slip into the perfect professional sheen when the occasion demanded it. But beneath his new American skin the Serbian she had known could hardly hide. At least not from her. She saw the way he nonchalantly smoothed his right eyebrow when he was impatient, as he did now. And the way his mouth curved in a gentle but set grin when he politely disagreed. As it did now.
He’d filled out over the years and he’d always stood much taller than her, but under the commanding facade he was still a young man, looking for escape. His face was well aged for thirty-eight years—the war and five years in prison were mostly responsible. It didn’t matter, he was still strikingly handsome. Crow’s-feet already wrinkled the skin around his eyes from his constant smiling. His dark blond hair swept back, graying above his ears and curled at his collar. The white American shirts with their ties always looked a little silly on him, she thought. For all her fussing over him, Karen obviously disagreed.
Ivena watched Janjic shift his hazel eyes around the table, taking in their stares. Roald Barns, the president of the North American Evangelical Association, and the man who had brought them to this country five years earlier, sat opposite him.
“I think what Frank means,” Roald said, motioning to the boxy man next to him, “is that we have an obligation to excellence. The Dance of the Dead has sold more than any religious book in this century. Excluding the Bible, of course. And that means it’s become an extension of Christianity, so to speak. A voice to the lost world. It’s important to keep that voice pure. I’m sure Jan would agree to that.”
“Yes, of course,” Jan said.
These evangelical leaders had come to honor him and to judge him in one fell swoop, Ivena thought—all dressed in starched white shirts and black ties. God forbid Janjic ever become a carbon copy of these men.
Ivena had held her tongue long enough while these men spoke their rounds of wisdom. She decided it was time to speak. “It really depends on what voice you’re trying to keep pure, doesn’t it, Frank?” she asked.
All heads turned to face her. “The message of the book,” Frank said. “The message of the book needs to remain pure. And the lives of we who proclaim that message, of course.”
“And what is the message of the book?” Ivena returned.
“Well, I think we already know the message of the book.”
“Yes, but indulge me. Janjic tells me that it’s my story as well as his. So then what does this story tell you about God’s relationship with man?”
The leaders exchanged glances, off balance by her sudden challenge.
“It’s the story of innocent bloodshed,” Bob Story said to her left. The short, round evangelical leader shifted in his seat. “The death of martyrs, choosing death instead of renouncing Christ. Wouldn’t you say?”
“In part, yes, that summarizes some of what happened. But what did the story teach you gentlemen? Hmm? I want to know because, unless I’m missing the tone of the past ten minutes, you are more concerned with protecting the image of the church than spreading the message of the martyrs. I believe you think that you have a flawed spokesman in Janjic, and it terrifies you.”
The room suddenly felt hollowed of air. Janjic looked at her as if she’d lost her senses. But then she was right, and they all knew it. They loved the success of his book, but they did take exception to him now and then.
“True, yes? Janjic has written a magnificent book called The Dance of the Dead and he’s been embraced by a world hungering for the unadulterated truth. But Janjic’s just an ordinary man. An excellent writer, obviously, but a man with his share of flaws. Perhaps a man with more than his share of flaws, considering the scars the war has left on his heart. And now that he’s been chosen by the world as a spokesman for your Christianity, you’re quite nervous. Am I wrong?”
They stared at her unblinking.
A hotel waiter entered the conference room, perhaps to offer desserts, but with one look around the table, he thought better of it and turned on his heels. The air conditioner hummed behind Ivena, spilling cool air over her neck.
Roald was the first to recover. “I think I can speak for the group when I say that we have complete confidence in Jan. But you’re right, Ivena. He has been chosen by the world, as you say. Although not without our help, I might add.” They chuckled. “And he is a spokesperson for the church. Frank’s correct—by virtue of his own success Jan has a unique set of standards, I would say. Not unlike any other role model—a sports hero, for example. To whom much is given, much is required.”
Barney Givens cleared his throat. “I think Roald’s right. We’re not questioning God’s work in either of your lives. It’s a wonderful thing, more than any one of us could ask for. Your book, Jan, has done as much for this country’s spiritual health as Billy Graham’s crusades are doing. Don’t take us wrong. But you have to remember that you do represent the church, son. The eyes of the world are on you. You have our honor, but you also have our caution.”
“I didn’t ask to represent the church,” Janjic said. “I had God in mind when I wrote the book. Have I caused a specific offense, or are we just playing with words? I’m feeling schooled here.”
“Nonsense,” Frank said. “We’re simply cautioning you to watch y
our step, Jan. You have a wonderful personality, young man, but you do tend to fly off the handle at times. I understand how difficult it must be to live with the memories of the war; I survived the battlefields of World War I myself. But that doesn’t change our responsibility to hold the highest standard. Now’s the time to consider pitfalls—not after you’ve stumbled into them.”
“And how many women or children did you see butchered in your war? How many years did you spend in prison?”
“I’m not referring to stress from the war, and you know it. I’m talking about moral pitfalls, Jan. Any questionable appearance. It would reflect badly on the church.”
“We’re just cautioning you,” Ted Rund said. “You’ve been known to be rather unorthodox. I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased over what’s happened, my friend. But you’re speaking for the church now. You’ve been on virtually every television show in the country. We’re in times of upheaval. The moral state of our country is under a full-throttled assault and the church is being scrutinized under a new light. You’re one of our most effective spokesmen. We’re simply holding you accountable.”
Jan leaned back and tapped his fingers on the table. They were obviously not telling him everything.
“What did I do? Tell me how I offended you,” Jan said.
Roald and Frank looked at each other, but it was Frank who answered. “What you did was call our character into question last week in front of two million viewers.”
“Your character? You mean with Walter Cronkite?” Jan asked incredulously. “He asked if the church today understands the love of Christ. I said no. You found that offensive?”
“I believe ‘not at all’ were the words you chose. And yes, our character. We represent the church; the church represents Christ’s love, and you have the gall to say on a national show that we don’t understand that love. You don’t think that undermines the leadership?”
Ivena interrupted them quietly. “You still haven’t answered my question, gentlemen. What is the real message of Janjic’s book?”
