Since he had been no more than three or four years old, Joaquim had adored solving puzzles. They had led him, ultimately, to his love affair with computers which, once the internet had become affordable, had become a way out for him, a way in which he could travel to other countries. Other worlds.
Sometimes he chose a virtual location; imaginary flora and fauna offered by the warped imagination of a games or info-tainment developer. Other times he chose the real world; one click of a mouse transporting him to any location on the globe. As most of the pages on the internet were in English and his grasp of the language was not well honed, he rarely visited the information sites. Still, via imagery alone he could use his battered machine, a second hand IBM his father had saved for months to buy him, to escape the boredom of his life in the similarly battered streets of Lima, Peru.
When one of the largest computer hardware companies in the world, IntelliSoft, had announced that they were holding a global competition Joaquim, like others around the globe, had no idea what the winners’ prize might prove to be. The details they published on their website (one of the few which contained a Spanish language section) merely promised that it would involve taking part in the most important product launch in computer history. What were they going to launch, he wondered? Would it really change the world as they claimed? Joaquim had not really cared at the time, just as long as it changed his world. He took up the gauntlet, solved the twenty-eight on-line puzzles with ten minutes of designated time to spare and, three weeks later, received an Email congratulating him on winning the Peruvian heat. Further details, it claimed, would follow.
Which they did. Joaquim had not just beaten the other children in Peru, it seemed. He had now won the chance to beat other children across the world. He would hit the papers from America to China, from Iceland to Australia. It might ultimately lead to enough recognition to secure him a career within computers when he was older.
Perhaps he could eventually work his way to becoming a programmer at one of the factories on the other side of town or perhaps a data analyst at one of the banks or insurance companies. The possibilities would be huge for him. He would not have to follow his father into the cane plantations after all. One day he might even earn enough money to be able to buy a present for his father; a new car perhaps, just to say thank you. It would be like the blue one they had seen at the auctions three years ago. His father had said he could not afford it and it had been another three months before Joaquim had realised that his father had had the money all along, but had felt that his son’s desire for a computer was a greater need than his own. So when the day of the launch came, so did the chance to prove what a worthwhile investment that computer had been for them both.
Joaquim would not let his father down. He would win.
The ‘FireWorX NetCenter’ was almost complete; a beautifully modern glass dome just off the main street. Barring slight differences dictated by location it was the same as numerous other domes being constructed in numerous other countries worldwide. He had seen the ones in New York and London on the internet but they did not look half as good. They were lost in such great cities, nothing more than quirky-looking booths cloaked in the shadows of much bigger skyscrapers. Not so here in Lima. Here, amongst the ageing Spanish architecture and peeling paintwork of a city troubled by poor economic performance, even the unfinished dome seemed to shine like a diamond.
The large countdown board that the company had erected was still ticking away, bright yellow letters almost leaping from the black panel as they informed Joaquim just how long he would have to wait to finally prove himself:
27 dias, 3 horas, 11 minutes.
He had watched the workmen every morning for almost six weeks now. When he had first seen them working the display had read 53D/17H/28M. He remembered it as though it was yesterday. Each day the numbers fell steadily lower and lower, closer and closer as all around the structure of the building grew higher and higher. From the laying of cables and the digging of foundations to the insertion of the triangular IntelliSoft logo at the very apex, Joaquim had watched each and every step with wonder and awe. The men building the dome must be well paid, he thought, because they never once stopped working. Unlike the government workers who seemed to take more breaks than they laid bricks, these men were toiling all day every day. He knew that because he was able to watch them all day at the weekends, and yet they smiled continuously as though they had been granted some great honour. Because of this, Joaquim had never seen a building in Lima erected so fast.
Yes indeed, he thought, they must be getting very well paid.
Today they were lifting the penultimate section of a huge yellow structure into place at the side of the dome and Joaquim still had no idea what this addition would prove to be. He guessed that when they had finished it would be around twelve feet in diameter and over thirty high with eighty (he had counted them all) oversized tubes made from highly reflective chromium sticking out from the top. The shape of the structure was primarily cylindrical but possessed undulating sides which he suspected served no function other than to make the whole effect more interesting. To the young boy it looked like an upturned rocket ship like ones the heroes flew in his second-hand comic books.
With a deep sigh he climbed to his feet, smoothed the dust from his fading jeans and slung a ragged canvas bag over his shoulder. As he set off along the road he promised himself that if Mr. Mendez did not keep him too late after school to ‘teach him the value of time’ yet again, then he would finally muster the courage to ask one of the smiling workmen what on earth this amazing rocket ship was supposed to be.
27 dias, 2 horas, 47 minutes.
And counting. But for now his only choice was to be making his way to school.
He was going to be even more late than usual this morning and Mr. Mendez would be far from pleased. Still, Mr. Mendez could be angry all he liked. Joaquim had been watching the big American company building his future far better in recent weeks than any third rate teacher with halitosis and a nervous twitch could ever hope to do.
simon, who is called...
Matthew 10:2
The deep, cold grey of the pavement rippled beneath a seething blanket of disgruntled heads. Driving rain pierced Jack’s face and bit into his skin like catapulted shards of ice. Negotiating the unfamiliar territory with ever decreasing cordiality and an anger he had not felt in many years, he was further annoyed at being constantly jostled by the swarm. Everyone moved with eyes lowered as they followed imaginary paper trails to the sanctuary of their respective destinations. Bodies danced to avoid the downpour, oblivious to the cold truth that they were already far beyond saturation point. Resignation turned to indignation as a complete lack of focus resulted in numerous predictable collisions.
The chauffeur had given fairly accurate directions from Leicester Square to Leicester Place, tucked discretely around one of far too many faceless corners, but once he had found it Jack had subsequently spent a further five minutes walking its full length, searching in vain for the church. His clothing had become heavy and tight and his temper was visibly beginning to fray. Eventually, at ten past one, male pride exhausted itself and he asked a suited man, the first person who did not possess the demeanour of a tourist, for help. The man, a bespectacled executive in his late twenties, obviously had better things to do than help another displaced sightseer, but his curt reply at least gave Jack the information he required. Because the façade possessed none of the flamboyance usually associated with Catholic churches, and because the only decoration on the exterior walls was a repeating motif of alternate circles and equal-armed crosses, Jack had failed to notice that he was, in fact, standing directly in front of it.
The Church of Notre Dame de France had been built in 1865 on a site associated with the ultimate holy warriors; The Knights Templar. Having been nearly demolished by Nazi bombs during the Second World War, it had been rebuilt during the 1950s with little or no concern for aesthetics. Not that Jack noticed or in
deed cared, he was here purely because of the image formed by the rearrangement of the letters and the seething anger it was now fuelling within him:
Lara’s school picture, presumably copied directly from one of the numerous articles about Jack himself, with the words ‘cast out of heaven with everyone who does evil’ still visible above her smiling face. He took a deep breath, entered the building and shook the excess water from the collar of his overcoat. Somebody had better have a good explanation for that comment.
A damn good one.
He had entered a high, airy hall; poorly illuminated. The only real light came from beyond the open door and the small stained glass windows which were set into three of the walls. The church was almost bereft of the garish statuary which adorned its more historic counterparts, but there were a few small plaques depicting stations of the cross, a high altar of a young Virgin Mary surrounded by Disney-cute adoring animals, some cracked-plaster saints presiding over the side chapels and, on the furthest wall, a simple hand-painted mural.
Jack’s shape formed an imposing silhouette; his long raincoat forming sharp angles against the glow of the door. Whilst his head remained aggressively lowered, his eyes stayed level, carefully scrutinising the few people already seated within the church. For a brief moment the only sound was the dampened hum of the distant traffic and steady drip-drip of water onto the polished floor. It was followed by footsteps; Jack’s own, as they commenced the measured stroll of inspection usually reserved for the sternest of teachers and sergeant majors. Each step echoed back through the hall from the flat plasterwork of the walls.
Passing under a domed skylight decorated with a spider’s web of concentric rings, Jack stared at the others who had chosen shelter under the church’s high roof. Many had the appearance of people for whom this was the only shelter currently available, the dispossessed of the street who visited for the warmth and the rare kindness which the church might afford them. With his heart still pounding with nervous irregularity and passionate rage squeezing down on his eyes, he looked at each in turn, scrutinising their empty faces. One by one they looked back at him and one by one they read his expression and turned resolutely away. Nobody held his gaze. Nobody claimed him.
His eyes were finally drawn back to the mural, a simplistically painted crucifixion sketch outlined in sparse colour directly onto the plaster. It seemed as good a meeting place as any and he chose one of the light oak pews closest to it. For a few minutes he sat in silence, fumbling nervously for his handkerchief before wiping his face and brow. Then, tired and wet, he closed his eyes and waited for confrontation. Outside the clouds were gathering and they ate away at what little light had been penetrating the hall. The air was filled with the electricity of an ensuing storm and Jack could feel every drying hair on his body start to rise in readiness.
From behind his eyelids everything was a deep blue velvet, the panels of glass in the windows colouring the weakened strains of daylight as they fought their way under his skin. Somewhere behind him the large wooden door was closed against the rain and the sound echoed throughout the chamber. Even so he could still feel a chill, a gentle cold that brushed his ankles and coursed upward to his shoulder blades. He shuddered.
“Interesting, don’t you think?”
His eyes jerked open and he swung his head in the direction of the deep voice, surprised to find that he was no longer alone. For an instant he thought it might perhaps be the voice of the resident priest but, on seeing the man, soon realised that this was anything but a man of the cloth. Expensively dressed, the stranger was already settled on the pew about two feet to his right. His eyes were firmly focused. Not on Jack, but on the crudely rendered image which faced them both.
Jack remained silent, uncharacteristically vague as to how he should react.
“The mural,” the man continued, almost disinterestedly turning to face him. “It’s interesting, don’t you think.”
Medium in build, mid to late forties, the man’s face possessed a leathery tan and jet black hair slicked back to fall like strips of dark rain below his shoulderline. He wore a tailored black suit with no lapels, a tight black polo necked sweater underneath. No shirt. No tie. His sharply chiselled features seemed to indicate mixed parentage, possibly a combination of Middle Eastern and European with thick eyebrows and an angular nose. His expression was cold and sinister, illuminated blue on one side from the stained glass whilst the other was little more than a dark mask. Through the darkness Jack could see his eyes, black and probing with a stare that seemed to look underneath his very skin. He held the man’s gaze with unblinking cynicism, though for the first time in living memory it made him extremely uneasy to do so. Whilst he was unclear regarding its true nature, there was something about this man that he did not like one little bit.
After a calculated period the man looked away and reclined with relaxed authority, his demeanour similar to so many of the hardened businessmen with which Jack was forced to negotiate daily. The fragrance he wore, which he had not noticed whilst his eyes were closed, was an exclusive brand he sometimes wore himself and probably cost even more than the suit. The watch was Breitling, solid gold, as were the cufflinks which were embellished with an engraved letter ‘M’. Even the one thing which looked out of place on the man, a gypsy-style hooped earring, was probably twenty-four carat.
“It was painted by Jean Cocteau... the French artist and filmmaker. One of the last things he painted before his death.” He spoke calmly and clearly, as though offering a tourist-tour of the church. “That’s him there, you see?”
Jack followed the man’s outstretched finger to the mural but was not given the chance to construct the dismissive reply he somehow felt he ought to deliver.
“The man facing front,” the man explained. “It’s not a Roman Centurion and it’s certainly not a disciple.” He turned to face Jack again; a knowing smile carving through his face. “Cocteau, it seems, decided to paint himself into the mural.”
Jack was beginning to realise that, despite making him uneasy, this man was nothing to do with the message he had received. He was probably no more than a well-versed art lover; the annoying man in every gallery who chose to share his textbook knowledge with anyone who was patient or polite enough to listen. At this precise moment in time Jack did not fall into either category. He was here for more than polite conversation, and his patience was as thin as the wash of colour currently decorating the plaster.
“I’m not here for an art lesson,” he snarled through clenched teeth, ignoring the man and looking beyond him for any sign of the visitor he was expecting. He had hoped the man would get the message. Leave him alone. “I’m waiting for...”
“... a history lesson,” the man interrupted, his stare once more fixed directly at Jack’s. He let the words float around the church for a moment and then relaxed his stare, his eyes almost following them on their travels. “But the thing you must remember about history, Mr. Bernstein, is that it can so often record many differing versions of the same event. Who can say what history will record about your daughter, for example? ‘Tragic heiress falls from horse’ no doubt.” As Jack’s mouth fell open the man shrugged stoically. “History is all about recording bullshit. So rarely is it an exact science.”
Jack’s head jerked to face the man. “What the fuck do you know about my daughter?” Expectancy and anger had merged his sentence into one long, desperate snarl.
“That she died on TransAir Flight 320 flying Frankfurt to New York.” The man shrugged again. “Excuse my blunt approach but I’m afraid it is the cold hard truth and there is nothing that either one of us can do to change it.”
Jack had no idea who this man might be, only that he had somehow come into possession of information that he had been assured by people at the very highest level would remain completely confidential. He was also aware that, in his experience at least, no simple investigator or indeed investigative reporter earned anything like enough money to secure a suit, aftershave and jew
ellery combination such as this.
“How do you know about Flight 320?” he asked, rage building with every word. “And how do you know about...?”
“Your daughter? Oh, I know a lot of things about poor little Lara. Let’s just say that I represent what you might call ‘an interested party’.” His pause and syllabic stress seemed well rehearsed. “So tell me,” he continued, his change of tone matching his change of tack, “why do you suppose that a world famous artist... commissioned by the Catholic church... would choose to place himself inside his own mural and then deliberately represent himself as abjectly turning away from the feet of the Christ? Should he not be praying at them? Praising them? Begging them to forgive the many sins of his pitiful existence?” He shook his head as though disappointed by what he saw. “Why paint yourself instead wearing an expression which is only one step away from sheer disgust? Laughing in the face of those who commission your work is a dangerous game to play. Laughing in the face of God himself guarantees you little more than a place in hell.”
Jack cast the mural a fleeting, darkly reluctant glance.
It showed the feet of a crucified man from the knees down, presumably those of Jesus himself. Three Roman Centurions stood guard at the base of the cross, whilst two male and two female disciples looked toward the feet. Not one of the people in the coarse sketch looked upset, however. Nearly all looked, at best, disgusted. And there, at the bottom left of the mural, was the man described as Cocteau. Short-haired and looking desperately out of place, he did indeed turn away from the figure of Christ, sharing the same repugnant expression.
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