The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  The page offered little personal information—only a brief mention that Ms. Fischer had received an M.A. from San Diego State University in California. Nothing about a husband, children, or personal goals.

  Nothing to indicate why she would be working with Santos Justus.

  Sighing, Asher turned off the computer, then moved to his writing desk in the sitting room. After picking up a pen, he pulled his journal toward him.

  I was nearly approved to work at Unione Globale when I encountered an unexpected obstacle—an American woman, Claudia Fischer. For some reason Santos Justus has placed her in a position of authority, and I sense that she does not trust me.

  But why should she? If she knew the motivation of my heart, she would shun me like the devil himself. And yet . . . I wonder about her. Logic tells me she must be ungodly—indeed, there is nothing in her appearance, manner, or speech that leads me to consider her a believer. I have heard she works for American criminals, which would seem to indicate that her heart is dark and ruthless, yet I cannot believe she has sold herself to evil, for there is goodness in her too. She smiled tonight when I returned a child to his mother, and when I met her on the street I saw a flicker of loneliness in her eyes . . .

  Holy God, prove yourself faithful. Grant me courage and perseverance, but above all, give me wisdom to overcome the evil that must arise in these last days.

  I pray these are the last days. Please, Holy God, may they be.

  SIXTEEN

  TRUE TO MY PROMISE, THE NEXT MORNING I PICKED UP AN ITALIAN phrase book at a newsstand. For the next two days at Global Union headquarters, I made an honest attempt to conquer the first chapter, “Useful Everyday Phrases.” And while I struggled to inject Piacere di conoscerla? (How do you do?) and Sono davvero spiacente (I’m really sorry) into my conversations, I discovered Asher Genzano was right —people really did warm up to me when they realized I was trying to fit into their world.

  By the end of the week, I had also approved Asher Genzano’s application. I didn’t want to. I fretted over my uneasiness for hours, then went down to Signora Casale’s office, hoping to use her as a sounding board.

  “Something about him is not right,” I said, sliding my legs into the narrow space between her guest chair and her desk. “His residence, for instance. Don’t you find it odd that he lives in a hotel?”

  Maura Casale arched her fine brows into triangles. “Why shouldn’t a man live in the building he owns?”

  He owned the hotel? I sat back, stunned by the realization that the man who had appeared desperate for a job was apparently as rich as Midas. Roman real estate, I knew, was not inexpensive.

  “So why does he want this job?” I whispered the question more to myself than to the personnel director, but Signora Casale took it upon herself to answer.

  “Why shouldn’t he want to serve the cause of world peace? He is an honorable man; I myself have interviewed him on three different occasions during the concorso. He is well qualified, he respects Il Presidente, and he yearns to do something good for the world. Are those not good reasons for wanting to work for Unione Globale?”

  I could feel my cheeks flushing hotly. “If Il Presidente wants to hire Signor Genzano as a figurehead, why doesn’t he just do it? There is no need to make him go through the concorso. There was no reason for him to sit through that interview with me—”

  I stopped as my embarrassment turned to raw fury. Had Asher Genzano been toying with me in that first interview? Perhaps he knew his position in Global Union was secure; most wealthy men got whatever they wanted, particularly when they signed up with charitable organizations. Want to be a vice president? Sure, just sign over a check. Want a building named in your honor? Our pleasure. Just write a check, and we’ll do whatever you want . . .

  “Signor Genzano,” Maura Casale was flushing now, scarlet stains appearing on her cheeks as she stared at me with glittering eyes, “has never even met Il Presidente. He has asked for nothing and received no special treatment. From what I can tell, he wants only to work with Unione Globale as a humble interpreter, as any man committed to the cause of peace.”

  My mouth dropped open, surprised again at this unexpected turn of events. A wealthy man who wanted to be treated like everyone else? Asher Genzano was more extraordinary than I had imagined.

  Helpless to halt my embarrassment, I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling like a complete and total failure. I had misread every clue. His elusive answers to my questions were not an effort to hide some unsavory aspect of his past; he must have meant only to disguise his wealth and position. He needn’t have worried. I knew less than nothing about wealthy Roman families.

  He wanted to work for peace, Signora Casale said. I should have accepted the man’s desire at face value, but we Americans are cynical by nature. Ninety-eight percent of the people I knew in Manhattan were quick to sign on for do-gooder causes and just as quick to bail if no photographers or celebrities clambered around to add sparkle to an event. No one did anything without regard for personal gain . . . but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what Asher Genzano would gain from following Santos Justus around the world like an obedient puppy. Some people, I supposed, did enjoy being part of a powerful person’s entourage, but Asher Genzano had not impressed me as a hanger-on.

  Signora Casale must have taken my silence for hesitation, for she slid reports from the office of the local carabinieri across her desk. “You’ll see that Signor Genzano has no arrest record and no complaints lodged against him,” she said. In a final effort to convince me, she followed the police reports with a yellow sheet of paper.

  I picked it up. “What is this?”

  “Intelligence test results.” Her expression was locked in neutral, though I suspected she found my continued reticence rather annoying. “Signor Genzano scored a 148.”

  I made a face at the test results. So, the Wealthy Man I Would Not Hire tested well into the genius category. Add to that his savant’s gift for language, and the sum equaled one convincing truth: Maura Casale thought I was a fool.

  Knowing when I was beaten, I had dropped the report onto her desk and reached for his file. “I’ll approve him. But I’ll keep an eye on him too.”

  And as I signed my name to his employment record, I told myself no harm would come from it. Something about Asher Genzano rang false in my ears, but I could see nothing in his character or manner to suggest he would be anything but a faithful and extraordinarily competent employee for Global Union.

  Global Union, I discovered in the following weeks, could boast of a plethora of competent and faithful employees. Due to the rigors of the concorso, the organization hired only the crème de la crème, and peace-seeking idealists had flocked to Rome from several European nations. Each day I saw new faces in the cafeteria and met new applicants in my office. Il Peacemaker, the organization’s official newsletter, reported that chapters of Global Union had been established in each of the fifteen European Union countries, and additional national chapters would be established within six months. By the end of the year, the editor enthusiastically prophesied, every nation on earth would have at least one chapter of Global Union operating within its borders.

  One morning in the cafeteria, Reverend Synn sat at my table and sipped a cappuccino, pointing out new employees as we talked. “They are the lifeblood of the world’s future,” he said, nodding to a pretty young English girl who had been hired as a receptionist earlier in the week. “They will straighten the paths our forefathers have made crooked.”

  Accustomed by this time to his political grandiloquence, I smiled and let him talk. Like all vast organizations, I had discovered that in some ways Global Union was a world unto itself. The organization even had a few laws—albeit unwritten laws. First among them was a commandment never to speak ill of Santos Justus or Darien Synn. Anyone who dared question an order from the seventh floor or a suggestion from the sixth earned an icy stare, if not an outright rebuke, from
the nearest bright-eyed idealist.

  Nor, I noticed, did anyone speak of nations after Justus gave a speech about how the world was one unity and nations only artificial boundaries designed to keep people apart. After that, I heard no more whispers referring to me as l’Americana. My landlady and her neighbors seemed fascinated with the United States and things American, but everyone within the walls of Global Union apparently wanted to be one big, chummy family.

  Justus wanted to bring people together not only on an international scale, but also within his own organization. Every Wednesday morning, at 10:00 sharp, every office emptied for the weekly convocation. From the lowest receptionist to Justus himself, the employees of Global Union gathered in the third-floor cafeteria. While employees filed in to sit around the luncheon tables or stand along the walls, Signora Casale took the microphone and led the gathering in an energetic Italian chorus. Her chesty alto echoed along the walls, and only after I had become partially conversant in Italian did I realize we were singing, “Peace, Peace, follow me to peace! We’ll win the world; we’ll save the children; we’ll do all things through peace!”

  An energetic pep talk, usually given by Il Direttore, followed the singing, then Rico Triccoli, the director of Global Union’s international chapters, stood and announced how many new chapters had been chartered in the past week. Fervent applause followed his report, and then, if we were lucky enough to catch Il Presidente in town, Santos Justus himself would stand and speak for five or ten minutes.

  I used to think of myself as somewhat jaded—when you live in Manhattan you tend to see and hear the best and worst of everything, including orators. I’ve had the privilege of hearing speeches by everyone from Reagan, the Great Communicator, to Clinton, the weepy “I feel your pain” president, so I really didn’t expect Justus to move me in any particular way. But I must admit, the man had a gift. Like Reagan, he could stir hearts with star-spangled fervency; like Clinton, he could tell a story about a child in war-torn Somalia and leave his audience in tears. He spoke of hope, of peace, and of mutual respect and love. He spoke of the power of dreams and of the destructiveness of despair. But he never, I noticed, spoke of God. Was he trying to avoid a divisive topic? I couldn’t tell.

  In a city famous for being the home of the Holy See, I thought it odd that no one at Global Union ever referred to the Vatican. The pope and his vast legion of employees and guards affected the city in myriad ways—tourists flocked to St. Peter’s, religious pilgrims knelt before statues and prayed in the ancient churches, and nearly every night a television newscaster reported the Holy Father’s whereabouts and remarked upon his health. I myself had seen the great white helicopter that routinely transported the pope from his heliport in the Vatican Gardens to his vacation home at Castel Gandolfo in the Italian hillside. Despite the average Roman’s indifference to papal trappings, the sight of that white helicopter was enough to stop pedestrians on the street and inspire a few to cross themselves in reverence.

  Outside the Global Union headquarters, I saw many signs of religious devotion. Inside the headquarters, I looked for signs of fervent belief and found none. The lack of religious affiliation didn’t bother me; it just struck me as odd. How could you live next to the head of the largest church in the world and not be affected by it?

  I broached the topic with Maura Casale one day at lunch. We were eating outside in the courtyard, and the whirling white helicopter passed over our heads in a slow loop, then disappeared behind a stand of trees. I pointed in the direction of the Vatican and made a casual remark about how much she must enjoy being near the heart of the world’s church.

  A blasé expression crossed Maura’s face. “The pope is valued for economic reasons only,” she said. “Many people yearn for the coveted prize of a Vatican job. The pay is low, but the perks are very good—if you are willing to sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice went out a long time ago, signora.”

  The older woman rolled her eyes. “Not here. To work for the Vatican, you have to adhere to an antiquated moral code and list of prohibitions. No cohabitation or pregnancy without marriage. No abortion. No skirts above the knee. No bare arms in the basilica. Vatican employment is slavery disguised as religious honor.”

  I stared at the gleaming dome of St. Peter’s. “I thought all Romans loved the pope. I used to watch him on television, waving to huge crowds in the square—”

  “Tourists,” Signora Casale spit out the word, then opened her mouth and shoveled in a generous forkful of gnocchi.

  I fell silent and quietly adjusted my preconceptions. I had imagined Italy a devout and religious country, but I was beginning to understand that many Romans did not even pretend to practice their religion. I later learned that the United States actually has a higher percentage of professing believers within its population than Italy.

  Italians were not as simple or as obvious as I had first imagined they were. Yet, after three weeks among them, I had to admit that I enjoyed them.

  I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.

  Six weeks after my arrival in Rome, I met with Reverend Synn for an evaluation of the concorso process. It was October 31, the day before the national holiday of Tutti i Santi, or All Saints’ Day. Synn had requested the meeting before the holiday to “review our employment records and see where we stand.” I interpreted that as “if we should be rid of you or keep you around for a while.”

  We sat at a concrete table in the piazza outside the Global Union building. The sky was a faultless wide curve of blue over our heads, and the sun felt good on my face. It was eleven o’clock, the hour of the espresso break, and several Global Union employees milled around us at a respectful distance.

  “I must compliment you, signorina; you have done a marvelous job,” Synn said, sniffing with satisfaction as he crossed his thick arms on the table. “All departments report complete satisfaction with their employees. We can truly change the world with such people.”

  The breeze freshened, and I wrapped my jacket closer around me. “How is Asher Genzano working out?”

  “Ah, Signor Genzano is hard at work translating several of Il Presidente’s speeches. I tried to get him to use our computer translation program, but he insists upon doing them manually. He has a quick mind, though, and I must admit his work is far superior to the computer’s.”

  “I knew he would be a hard worker, but . . .” Weary of supposings about the inexplicable Asher Genzano, I let my voice trail off.

  A gleam of interest flickered in Synn’s eyes. “You have doubts about his character?”

  “Not really. He is an honorable man, certainly, and definitely capable of being deeply committed to a cause. But there was something about his eyes . . .”

  Blinded by the bright morning sun, I shaded my eyes with my hand and studied the memory of that night in the coffee shop. He had been considerate of me, helpful to the Somali woman, kind to the woman from the Philippines—who, I now realized, had recognized him as her employer. And yet there had been no haughtiness in his expression, no rebuke for the harried mother, and no judgment of me, the American who would not hire him. In his eyes I had seen infinite patience, remarkable for a man in any culture, but especially unusual in Italy . . .

  The silence lengthened, then Il Direttore prodded me back to attention. “What about his eyes?”

  “I don’t know.” I lowered my hand. “His eyes don’t seem to match his face, I suppose. He is a young man, but his eyes seem old, as if he has seen all the world’s sufferings. But he did say he has traveled in many foreign countries.”

  Synn nodded slowly. “Perhaps his travels led him to understand the heartbreak of war . . . and ultimately brought him to us.” He gentled his voice. “There are many things, signorina, that have the power to age a man—sorrow, loss, and fear. And poverty, of course.”

  I bit my tongue, silencing a tart comment about Asher Genzano’s noteworthy lack of poverty, while Synn’s eyes went soft and gray. His mouth softened, and I knew he was on the
verge of making one of his improve-the-world speeches. Glancing at my pocket watch, I mumbled something about needing to meet with Signora Casale to see if any new applications had been entered into the system.

  “There are no new applicants,” Synn said, his eyes still focused on some thought I couldn’t discern. “We have filled all our present positions.”

  I digested this piece of information in silence. If there were no other positions to be filled, why was I still in Rome? Why had they asked me to set aside six months if they only needed me six weeks?

  I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a sound, Synn’s age-spotted hand fell over mine. “Il Presidente has asked me to invite you to dine with him today. We will eat lunch in his office, if that suits your schedule.”

  Too surprised to do anything else, I nodded in agreement.

  As the hour approached noon, I peered into the tiny mirror of my compact to be sure I didn’t have lipstick or coffee stains on my teeth. My mind had been roiling with questions ever since Synn’s invitation, and I had come to the conclusion that this luncheon meeting was probably a token gesture of appreciation. Justus would thank me for my hard work and send me on my way with a considerably smaller fee than we had originally negotiated. I couldn’t ask for more, however, if they no longer needed me.

  At five minutes until twelve I stood, smoothed my skirt, and raked my fingers through the short layers of my hair, hoping I could evoke some semblance of the fashionably tousled look I saw on so many women in Rome. I paused at the doorway as another possibility reared its head. What if Justus didn’t want to send me home? The quick question needed a thoughtful answer. What if he wanted to keep me on staff permanently? He had once mentioned the possibility of my working with him in Brussels, but since he never mentioned it again, I had dismissed the idea.