by Ted Dekker
“Yes indeed, you did. But it wasn’t just you, Roald. It was the book. It was the priest’s blood. It was my torture. It was God, and you should never forget that!”
“Of course it was God. But you can’t just throw your own responsibility on God. We each play our part.”
“Yes, and my part was to rot for five years in a prison, begging God to forgive me for beating a priest. What was your part?”
“I don’t hear any complaints about the house. Or the car, or the rest of it, for that matter. You seem pretty comfortable now, Jan, and for that you may thank me and Karen.”
“And I’d give it up in a word if it mocked the lives that purchased it.” Would you, Jan? “If you don’t understand that, then you don’t know me as well as you once thought. This mountain of metal and mortar is an abstraction to me. It’s the love of God that I seek, not the sale of my books.” At least for the most part.
“If you drift off to obscurity, what becomes of your message then? We live in a real world, my friend, with real people who read real books and need real love.”
They sat staring at each other, silent in the wake of their outbursts. It wasn’t so uncommon, really, although rarely with this intensity. Jan wanted to tell Roald that he wouldn’t know real love if it bit his heart out, but he knew they’d gone far enough. Perhaps too far.
“Well, well,” Karen said softly. “Last time I checked we were all on the same side here.” She wore a thin smile, and Jan thought she might actually be proud of him for standing so firmly. It was inspiring, wasn’t it? In a very small way it was like Nadia standing tall in Karadzic’s face. In a very tiny way.
The heat of the moment dissipated like steam into the night.
“Now, like I was saying before this train derailed itself,” Karen said, “the meetings were interesting. I didn’t say they were disastrous. Maybe I should’ve been a little clearer; we might have avoided this robust philosophical exchange.” She stared Jan in the eye with those beautiful brown eyes and winked. “Bracken and Holmes may have turned us down, but there are other players in this big bad world of ours. And as it turns out, I just may have found a new life for The Dance of the Dead, after all. No pun intended, of course.”
“Which would be?” Jan asked.
She looked at Roald, who was now smiling. So he knew it as well. Jan stared at her. “What? You’ve been turned down by the publisher, so what was this other meeting? You’ve set up another speaking tour?”
“Speaking tour? Oh, I think there will be speaking tours, my dear.” She was playing it out, and in the echoes of Jan’s exchange with Roald it was playing like a sonnet.
“Then say it. You obviously know as well, Roald, so stop this nonsense and tell me.”
“Well, what would you suppose is the most ambitious way to present your book to the masses?”
“Television? You have another television appearance.”
“Yes, I’m sure there’ll be more of those as well.” She leaned back and smiled. “Think big, Jan. Think as big as you can.”
He thought. He was about to tell them to get on with it when it came to him. “Film?”
“Not just film, Janjic. Feature film. A Hollywood movie.”
“A movie?” The idea spun through his head, still not connecting. What did he know of movies?
“And if we play our cards right,” Roald said, “the deal will be ours within the week.”
“And what is the deal?”
Karen lifted her pen to her mouth and tapped it on her chin. “I met with Delmont Pictures this morning—the fourth meeting, actually. They’ve offered to buy the movie rights to the book for five million dollars.”
“Delmont Pictures?”
“A subsidiary of Paramount. Very aggressive and loaded with cash.”
Jan sat back and looked from one to the other. If he wasn’t mistaken here, they were telling him that Delmont Pictures was offering five million dollars to make a movie of the book.
“When?”
Roald chuckled. “Deal first, Jan. Schedules will come after a deal’s made. Actually, it’s a wonder we still have the movie rights at all. Most publishers take the rights when they first contract. There was a piece of divine intervention.”
“When did you negotiate this?”
“Over the last few weeks.”
Jan nodded, still unsure. “So you’re telling me that they want to make a movie of The Dance of the Dead.”
Karen exchanged a quick glance with Roald. “In a matter of speaking. They want to make a movie about you,” Karen said, biting her pen and speaking around it. “About your whole life. From your days as a child in Sarajevo through the publishing of your book. A sort of rags-to-riches story. It’s perfect! Imagine it! You couldn’t fictionalize this stuff if you tried!”
The Dance of the Dead contained his life story to some degree, of course. But it was much more a story of spiritual awakening. “Rags to riches? My story’s not a rags-to-riches story.”
Roald cleared his throat and now Jan knew why the older man had taken him to task earlier. He had known this would be a sticking point—this rags-to-riches take on Jan’s life—and now he’d already aggressively argued his position in a preemptive strike. The man was no idiot.
“Now you listen, Jan. Listen carefully. This is a deal you want to take. This is a deal that’ll place your story on the hearts of untold millions who would never dream of reading your book. The kind of people who probably could use the story the most—people too busy with their own lives to take the time to read; people so thoroughly involved in mediocrity that they’ve never even thought about living for a cause, much less dying for one. Now”—he placed both hands on the table before him—“I realize that they want this spin of theirs on the story, but you must accept this proposal. It will save your ministry.”
“I wasn’t aware that my ministry needed saving, Roald. ”
“Well it does. It’s doomed.”
It is the souls of men that are doomed, not buildings and ministries, Jan wanted to say, but he decided against it. He’d challenged Roald enough for one day. Besides, there was a ring of truth to what the elder statesman said.
“He’s right, Jan,” Karen said. “You know he’s right.” It was half statement, half question.
He looked at her and saw that she was begging him. Please, Jan, you know that there are times to play tough and there are times to trust and accept. And you can trust me, Jan, because you’re more than a business partner to me. You are a man to me. Say yes.
A thought occurred to him then, looking at her. The thought that she was desperate for this deal. Perhaps as desperate for the deal as for him.
“Yes,” he said, gazing deep into her eyes. She was beautiful. She was striking and gentle and brilliant. “Maybe you’re right.”
She smiled and a moment passed between them.
“You are amazing,” he said, shaking his head.
She smiled and her eyes twinkled with another statement. We’re perfect together, Jan Jovic.
Roald lifted his coffee cup for a toast. “Now then, I’ll say it again, and this time you’ll understand. The Dance of the Dead: May she live forever.”
Jan grinned at the man and lifted his own cup. The entire meeting with the leaders now made sense. “May she live forever,” he repeated.
They laughed then. They hauled Nicki in and told her about the Delmont Pictures deal and talked through the afternoon about the new possibilities this would open up for the ministry. They even sent Steve out for some sparkling apple cider, and asked Betty, John, and Lorna to gather all the employees in the mailroom where they announced the deal. A hundred toasts and twice as many congratulations were thrown around despite Karen’s caution that it wasn’t finalized. Not yet. But will it be? Well, yes. There you go then! Congrats! And congrats on the engagement as well. You two were born for each other.
Betty hugged John, nearly twice her size; Steve tossed his driver’s cap into the air with a holler; even
Lorna, the skinny conservative finance manager, surprised them all by pretending to dance with her teacup before turning beet red at their laughter.
The execution of the contract was set to move forward at breakneck speed. Assuming they could come to terms with the scope of the project as it related to Jan’s life, they would sign documents in the Big Apple on Friday. Their first payment would come at signing—a clean million dollars.
“We’ll have to celebrate with dinner,” Jan told Karen in a quiet moment alone.
“Yes, we will. And we have a lot to celebrate.” She winked. Every look between them seemed to drip with honey, he thought. Karen sighed. “Unfortunately I have a conference call with the New York studio at six-thirty our time. How about a late dinner or dessert?”
“I’ll settle for dessert. Eight o’clock?”
“Eight it is.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her finger. “I love you, Jan Jovic.”
“And I love you, Karen.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WASN’T until five that Jan remembered the young blonde he’d left in Ivena’s care. He called Ivena on the phone.
“Hello.” The sound of her baritone voice brought the morning’s events crashing in on Jan.
“Hello, Ivena. It’s Janjic.”
“Well, Janjic. Nice of you to call.”
“I have some news,” he said, but suddenly he wasn’t thinking of the news. He was thinking of the woman. “How is she?”
“Helen? You wish to know how Helen is? Perhaps you should join us for dinner and see for yourself. She was your catch, after all.”
“I wasn’t aware I was fishing. But dinner may not work. I’m meeting Karen at eight.” He paused. “Is she okay?”
“You will have to see for yourself, Janjic. What is the news?”
“They want to make a movie of the story.”
The phone went silent.
“It won’t be made without your consent, of course. But it would be a wonderful opportunity to bring our story to many who’d never read it. And it’ll pay well.”
“The money is nothing. You remember that, Janjic. Never think of the money.”
“Of course.”
“When you left this afternoon, Janjic. There was a look about you.”
Suddenly the phone felt heavy in his hand.
“You saw something?” she asked.
He swallowed. “Not really, no. I . . . I don’t know what it was.”
“Then perhaps you should come to an early dinner, Janjic.” She said it as a command. Funny thing, it was now precisely what he wanted to do. He could eat with Ivena and meet Karen for dessert at eight.
“Come, Janjic. We will wait.”
“Okay. I’ll be there at six.”
“We will have the kraut ready.”
And that was that.
JAN GAVE Steve the night off and drove the Cadillac himself. Maybe it was time to stop the chauffeuring altogether. Of course, he’d have to find another position for Steve; he couldn’t just let the man go. But being driven around was feeling silly today.
He drove to the Sandy Springs district where both he and Ivena now lived, though on opposite ends. It was an upper-middle-class neighborhood, neatly cut into perfect squares, each heavily laden with large trees and manicured flowering bushes. Roald had recommended the area when they had first arrived and it had seemed far too extravagant for Jan. But then most things in America had seemed extravagant to him during those early days. Now the old custom homes and the driveways lined with their expensive cars and boats hardly made an impression at all.
For the second time that day Jan walked up the path to Ivena’s small house, surrounded by sweet-smelling rosebushes in full red bloom. He rang the doorbell and stood back. His palms suddenly felt clammy. Something had happened this morning when Helen caved in on herself at Ivena’s table—a shock of emotion had lit right through him. He could hardly explain it, but it had struck a chord in his mind. Like a tuning fork smacked too hard and left to quiver off key. The note had filled him with sorrow.
Jan pushed the bell again and the door swung in. Ivena stepped aside and invited him with an open arm. “Come in, Jan. It’s good of you to come.”
He stepped in. A kettle sang in the kitchen; the smell of sausage and kraut hung in the warm room. Dinner in Bosnia. Jan smiled and kissed Ivena on each cheek. “Of course, I would come.” He straightened and looked about the living room. “So where’s Helen?”
“In the kitchen.”
Then suddenly she was in the doorway that led to the kitchen, and Jan blinked at the sight of her. She stood in bare feet, it was the first thing he saw. The second was her bright blue eyes, piercing right through him; those hadn’t changed. But everything else had. For starters she wore a dress, one of Ivena’s dresses; Jan recognized it immediately. It was the blue one with yellow flowers, a dress Ivena hadn’t worn for some time, complaining that it was too small. It fit Helen’s thin frame remarkably well, certainly a bit large, but not ridiculously so.
It wasn’t the only change; Helen had showered as well. Her hair lay slightly unkempt, short and very blond. He couldn’t tell if she wore makeup; her face shone with its own brightness.
Jan smiled wide, unable to hide his amusement. Helen and Ivena giggled together as one, as if they had just shared this secret with him and expected him to be pleased with it.
Helen lifted both arms and curtsied. “You like?” She turned slowly, unabashed, posing with an arm cocked to her hairline, as if this were a fashion runway on which she stood instead of a checkered vinyl kitchen floor. Ivena rocked back and laughed. The levity was infectious. Jan stared at them, stunned, wondering what they’d gotten into over the afternoon.
“So, you like, Janjic?” Ivena asked.
You like? Since when did Ivena use such words? “Yes, I like,” he said.
Helen twirled around and let the dress rise up until it showed well-tanned thighs. “First dress I’ve had on in ten years. I guess I’ll just have to get me some of these.”
Jan chuckled.
“You see, I clean up pretty good, don’t you think? Of course, I had some help from Ivena.”
He was at a loss for words.
She walked toward him now, one hand on her hip, strutting for show and lifting her chin just so . . . Goodness, she was quite beautiful. She moved without a hint of presumption, as if he and Ivena were children and she the baby-sitter showing them how it was really done out in the big world. She walked right up to him and presented her hand to him. “Then let me show you your seat, good sire.” A twinkle skipped through her eyes and she grinned.
Jan looked over at Ivena, hoping for rescue, but she only smiled, quite pleased to watch, it seemed. He felt his jaw gape slightly, but felt powerless to pull it shut. Don’t be silly, Jan. It’s a harmless game!
He reached out and took her hand.
Now, up to this point in the day, Jan had taken everything pretty much in stride. It wasn’t the most usual day to be sure. Not with rescuing Helen and the odd emotions he’d felt at seeing her cry. Not with seeing Karen again or the announcement from her that his book was about to sell to Delmont Pictures for an ungodly amount of money. It wasn’t a usual day at all. But he had taken it all in stride, if for no other reason than his life had been filled with unusual days.
But now his stride faltered; because now, when his fingers made contact with Helen’s, his world erupted.
Pain surged through his chest, igniting a flash of light in his mind. It happened so suddenly and with so much force that he couldn’t contain a gasp. His vision filled with a white field, flowered as far as the eye could see; a flowered desert. A sound carried across the desert—the sound of crying. The sound of weeping. A chorus of voices crying and weeping in dreadful sorrow.
Jan stood there, holding her hand, and he gasped, unable to move forward. Immediately a part of him began to back-pedal, scolding him to collect himself. But that part of him consisted of nothing more than a distant wa
iling, smothered by the raw emotion that seemed to reach into his chest and give his heart a good squeeze. It was an ache that surged through his chest at the vision. A profound sorrow. Like the emotion he’d felt at seeing her cry, amplified ten times.
And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.
He bent over and coughed, hitting his chest as he did so. “Oh, boy. I’m sorry. Something caught in my chest.”
“You okay?” Helen asked with a furrowed brow.
“Yes.” He straightened. “Yes.”
She turned for the dining room. “Then follow me.”
He followed, pulled by her small hand. Had they seen his face? It must have turned white. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Ivena; surely she’d seen.
The table was set with Ivena’s china and three crystal glasses. A large red candle cast flickering light over the silverware; a bouquet of roses from Ivena’s garden stood as a centerpiece; steam rose lazily from the sausages. Helen ushered him to the seat at the table’s head and then slid gracefully into her own on his left.
“Ivena and I decided that the least we could do was to prepare your favorite dish,” Helen said. “Seeing as how you rescued me with all that bravery.” She grinned.
Jan’s heart still hammered in his chest. He’d had a waking dream or a flashback to the war, but not of any setting he could remember. Still, something felt vaguely familiar about it.
Ivena’s voice came distant. “Janjic?”
“I’m sorry. Yes, thank you. It reminds me of home,” he said. The tension he felt was in his own mind, he thought. Helen at least seemed oblivious to it.
