The Light of Our Yesterdays

by Ken Hansen

  May your hearts enjoy life forever!”

  …

  The generation to come will be told of the Lord,

  that they may proclaim to a people yet unborn

  the deliverance you have brought.

  No self respecting Christian would say Jesus abandoned his mother, so it must come as yet another scraping of Huxley’s soul by the terrorist. Why?

  Huxley stole a few furtive looks around the grotto and then opened the envelope and pulled out a white card with a gentle calligraphic design around its perimeter. The interior of the card contained more English in the same beautiful calligraphy as the cover:

  I asked to speak with you, but you ignored me:

  “‘Who is my mother, who are my brothers?’

  And stretching out his hand toward his disciples,

  He said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers.

  For whoever does the will of my Heavenly Father

  is my brother, and sister, and mother.’”

  So, my son, you may substitute my joy with God’s will,

  But do not find comfort among the harlots of Israel.

  When Huxley reached the last line, he closed his eyes and sucked hard on his bottom lip. He began searching: not for yet another clue but his own personal redemption. The events of the past four years unraveled again in front of him. His whirlwind romance with Hanna Elverman had started all of this…

  She had been beautiful, exotic and full of wit. He had thought that even when he had met her at Harvard, but then she was already in a serious relationship. They had become friends of a sort although he had always felt a certain shyness around her that he had not felt around other women. There had been her occasional coy smiles at him that suggested maybe she felt something too. But that was all.

  He had not seen her in over fifteen years, and then there she was, lying at the poolside in this resort in the Maldives—laughing that familiar little cackle that could be amusing, charming and a bit grating all at once. He had often started chuckling himself without having heard anything funny but her laughter. When she laughed with you, it was highly infectious; when she laughed at you, it was highly noxious.

  He was on leave for a week from his current CIA posting in Afghanistan. She was on leave semi-permanently from work in general and had been for many years. She had never married, yet never seemed to need work. Why bother when she could rely on a rich investment banking father, or a long-time Wall Street boyfriend, or some new, rich acquaintance hoping to set his boring life on fire. Huxley had little money, so he was a bit surprised when she seemed delighted to see him as he walked over to her from the poolside bar. The years had been good to her. At 37, she still sported the figure of an athlete, and any hint of wrinkles must have been carefully covered by expert makeup.

  “A Crimson Cackler in paradise? Is that a new species?” he joked.

  She turned away from her friend, paused while staring at him standing there in his swimsuit, and cackled again. “That’s a pretty good nickname, Sko-B. You been thinking that one up these past 15 years?”

  He smiled. Sko-B, short for Scholar Boy, the nickname his roommate had invented for him at Harvard when he discovered Huxley could afford to attend the college only on a full scholarship. “I never could keep up with you on nicknames. ‘Sko-B.’ That’s an old favorite. But that’ll be ‘Scholar Boy’ to you.”

  She returned the smile, more seductive this time. “Hey, the way you are looking right now, I’ll call you whatever you want.”

  “I never knew you to be a flatterer.”

  “You never knew me when I could flatter you.”

  It ended up as his best vacation, ever. He remembered little of the native scenery or the local tourist jaunts, but he was pretty sure Hanna and he had seen some of them together at some point. All he could recall from that week was the glistening oil on her tanned skin, her goose bumps providing a perfect palette for his expert hands subtly stroking her back and shoulders; the intoxicating and intoxicated conversations leading to imaginary monarchies, where together they could correct all the world’s ills; and the purifying moments of gentle bliss, their nearly naked bodies lying on a deserted beach while the waves roared their cacophonous approval.

  From there it was only a matter of time before he proposed to her. But then came the heartache. No, she had not rejected him. She accepted with her normally flamboyant style. Employing her best coy, coquettish smile and feigning a pathetic southern accent, she replied, “Whatever shall I do with such a scandalous proposition as this? I do declare—a marriage between a Long Island Jewish Princess and Baltimore Catholic Altar Boy—how could that even be possible? Would not the stars realign and the earth shake to its very foundation?” She paused for effect, and added begrudgingly, “Ah, but I do love you, my little Scholar Boy, so perhaps we could, just this once, break with tradition and see if the world can survive it.”

  Unfortunately, her words proved less funny and more prophetic than he had believed. She insisted on a wedding before a judge, sans religion. She was of Jewish heritage, though non-practicing—no, non-believing. He had not attended Mass since his early college days, so it was no big deal, or at least he had tried to tell his mother that.

  But his mother was crushed and would not relent. “If you marry outside of the church, son, how can I recognize you as man and wife? You will be living in sin. Is this what you want, Christian? Hanna really should convert, but that is her own choice. If she will not convert, can you at least marry her in front of a priest in a church? Please, do this for an old woman. I beg you.”

  Huxley could never refuse the rare plea from his mother. Unable to disappoint those sad yet loving eyes, he always obeyed. This time was no different. He now turned his pleas to Hanna. “Think about the bigger picture and try to put your own views aside. If you do not believe in God, then why should it matter if we appease my mother and get married in a Catholic Church?”

  “What kind of hypocrite are you? You don’t believe in God any more than I do. It sounds like a bad joke: ‘So a Jewish atheist and a Catholic agnostic walk up to a priest and ask to be married…’ It is absurd and a lie and I won’t do it. And I won’t subject my father, who does still believe in the God of his fathers, to watching his only daughter marry in a Catholic Church. Have you thought about that?”

  “I love you, Hanna. But I also love my mother. She has been that little angel on my shoulder—my conscience—for my whole life. Don’t do this. It will kill her. Your father accepted your atheistic views long ago. My mother still thinks she can save me. Please, reconsider. We can step out of the church as husband and wife and never look back. It is just a moment in time in your eyes but an eternity in hell fire for me in my mother’s eyes. Can’t you see that?”

  Hanna screamed back at him, “A moment in time? That’s what you think of me? A moment in time? At what moment in time will you grow up and break from your mother’s skirt? Your angel. Your conscience. If she is the angel, am I the devil? Listen to yourself, will you?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re reading too much into my words. Please. I cannot do this to her.”

  Hanna shook her head and glared at Huxley. “But you can do this to me? I guess I don’t know you after all. I thought you were strong, but you wilt at your mother’s feet. You want a moment in time? Well remember this moment, Scholar Boy!” She ripped the engagement ring off her finger, slammed it down on the counter, and stormed out of their Georgetown apartment, never to return.

  He spent weeks trying to clean up the mess to no avail. They still saw each other occasionally for a time, but something felt different. He even broke with his mother and told Hanna he would agree to a wedding in a synagogue if that would make her happy. But it was too late. It was as if, in those few moments, she had realized something about him that was irreconcilable with her very nature. His own interest in reconciling with her seemed to dwindle with the passing of time until the two just drifted apart. He had seen a side of her
once again that he had almost forgotten—that blunt vindictiveness that scared the hell out of him. Nevertheless, he still longed for her. The longing led to pain, which led to anger. The anger would not let him forgive his mother for unraveling his happiness. His psyche needed someone to blame other than himself, so he blamed his mother. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help it.

  He never yelled at his mother, never wrote any screaming notes, and never left any nasty voice mails. He just stopped. He stopped driving to Baltimore. He stopped calling her. He stopped reading her letters. If she didn’t exist, then neither could the pain. So for over a year, he pretended she didn’t. And then she stopped calling, and she stopped writing, and he figured she had simply given up.

  About a year and a half later, he learned of his mother’s dementia. Her neighbor, a longtime friend, called him and begged him to return and visit her in the care center. Huxley had not even known she was ill…

  Huxley was fondling the silver crucifix he had removed from his left pocket, running his thumb mechanically up and down the vertical post of the cross and over the tortured body of Jesus. It was the only thing his mother had left him when she had died a year later.

  He had kept it, not for its religious significance, but just the opposite. He loved the crucifix because it reminded him of his mother and his love for her, which he demonstrated during that last year of her life, though by then she could not even recognize him. But he also hated the crucifix because it reminded him of the silly religious notions that had destroyed both his love for Hanna and his relationship with his mother. Religion seemed to find a way to divide people.

  The crucifix meant more than that. It was a symbol that gave him clarity when others were lost in a sea of hate. He had encountered both many foreign terrorists and many “real Americans” who spewed hate in the name of their particular religion. But that often merely hid the true source of their hatred. No, religion was more often a means to an end, employed as a weapon by those with a lust for power or a compulsion for revenge who knew how to twist hatred out of love and squeeze chaos out of order.

  It was no different between Hanna and him. She had not broken with him because of religion; she had run because of his unwillingness to bend to her will. After a year of sorrow, he saw that, in her selfishness, Hanna simply could not accept losing a battle for his emotions. The wedding skirmish had just uncovered a latent disease that would undoubtedly have brought their marriage to an early grave.

  The premature death of their relationship didn’t really matter to him any more. What mattered now was that he had lost himself in the emotional flood of the experience and abandoned, yes forsaken, his mother. The crucifix reminded him to lose the hate and lose the emotion. Yet he could not prevent emotions from flooding over him now as the white card in his lap kept shouting the old truth back to him and seemingly echoing it menacingly throughout the grotto.

  Huxley looked up and saw Anwari standing over him.

  “Are you all right, Christian?”

  Huxley exhaled slowly and deeply, letting his cheeks and lips puff out.

  “I thought you were a non-believer,” Anwari said, “yet you hold a crucifix in your hand, and you look like this beautiful shrine has moved you nearly to tears. Is it more than merely historical to you? Has your soul been touched by this site?”

  “Not exactly,” Huxley said, his voice cracking slightly. “Just an old memory that haunts me from time to time.” Huxley put the card back in the envelope and inserted it into his left jacket pocket. He looked once more at the crucifix and saw instead his mothers’ withered face the day she died handing it to him in her defeated state. He fought back a tear and returned the silver object to his left pants pocket. “Have you found anything interesting, Abdul?”

  “Oh, there were several beautiful mosaics of Maryam that caught my eye. They were quite beautiful.”

  “Maryam?” Huxley asked. “Oh yes, I forgot that the mother of Jesus has a place in your Qur’an. Have you studied art?”

  “No, but I enjoy beautiful things. I noticed you were reading a small card. Did you find that here, or is that, too, a memento?”

  “Perhaps both.” Huxley stood up, still a little shaken. But now I am more confused than ever.

  Anwari looked around for any wayward ears, but the small park was still empty. “He was completely crushed by your little note. I thought he was going to cry like a baby, but he sucked it up when he saw me standing there. How did you know?”

  The deep, resonant voice of Pardus said, “How could I not? Unfortunately for him, his life became an open book at the agency after he melted down with his mother’s illness. He refused to take further interrogations. He seemed to have found a conscience. She had told him before that these tactics were the work of the devil and he was no better than the terrorists if he tortured them. That didn’t seem to bother him until she fell ill. Her illness and his despair tore him apart. Officially, he was put on leave, but everyone knew his career was over. It was only when his former boss became the Deputy Under Secretary for Intelligence and Analysis at Homeland that he got the second chance he had hoped for.”

  “And how did you manage to get inside information from the CIA?”

  Pardus paused for an uncomfortable period. “Let us say I have developed certain assets around the world. A few are highly placed; a few well placed. All are loyal. And if they were not, they could say little, because they know even less. It makes them less dangerous to me and to themselves. Unnecessary risks must sometimes be eliminated in the glorious fight for Allah. It is better to avoid becoming an unnecessary risk, do you not agree, Anwari?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand you completely.” Anwari closed his eyes. Stop asking questions. Questions kill. Compartmentalize. “By the way, I don’t think Huxley has really figured out what this is all about.”

  “Do not underestimate him,” Pardus said. “I suspect he will soon head to Rome. That is your next destination as well. We have need for some of your munitions expertise. With some luck, you will see Huxley there and be able to renew your growing friendship.”

  “Do you think it wise? What are the odds of another chance meeting?” Anwari asked.

  “He already suspects you. Let him continue to do so, for he has nothing on you. And while he searches for answers and hopes to uncover your role, you can always help set him straight on his path. You must be subtle. Any direction he gains must not appear to come from you voluntarily. Let him draw it out of you so he believes he is using you to his benefit.”

  “I see,” Anwari lied. How could he accomplish these subtle suggestions with someone as perceptive as Huxley? After a handful of conversations with the man, he had thought he had a bead on him, but now…had he fooled the investigator even a bit?

  Pardus seemed to interpret his silence. “You are wondering if you have the skill to pull this off? Look, Anwari, nobody but you can do this. And remember: you do this for your brother—for all your brothers. You do this for Allah. You are his hands. You are his eyes. Let him be your heart. Together, we shall help Him remake the world.”

  Chapter 10

  Several days later, Anwari felt less like a terrorist and more like a true tourist as he sat beside the cooling waters of the sapphire swimming pool at the New Collossus Hotel in Rome. Pardus had told him to relax a couple days, meld into the tourist community, and maintain a casual watch for the target’s patterns. It had proven easy duty, though he had kept struggling to turn his eyes away from the many young Western women in their tiny bathing suits. Allah forgive me. This time he had come to the pool area in the early morning, but the already steaming sun had brought others out to catch some of its rays before beginning their tourist jaunts through the historic city. He found some time to study the Great Book.

  A shrill scream ten meters away jerked Anwari’s eyes from his Qur’an, but it was merely one of the two girls—the ten-year-old—trying to regain her balance at the end of a diving board that seemed to jerk up and down wit
h a mind of its own. Then he saw her older sister—the twelve-year-old—giggling as she jumped repeatedly on the board near its fulcrum. The younger girl finally lost her balance and fell, spiraling and flailing five feet into the pool. A few seconds later, she resurfaced, laughing. The older girl soon joined her in the pool, executing a nearly perfect airplane dive to the right, and they swam together toward the shallows.

  Pretending to stretch and yawn, Anwari looked to his right, where he saw the huge man staring and smiling at the children. He was not their father. A black duffle bag sat beside his chair with the zipper open, a towel covering its deadly contents. The man began scanning down the poolside, pausing at the occupant of each lounge chair for a second. Anwari knew enough to return to reading his Qur’an.

  “Mr. Riese, Mr. Riese!” called the older girl. “Would you throw us the ball?”

  The large man by the duffle bag complied, batting the beach ball into the pool. The two girls bounced the ball to each other for a few minutes, but seemed to tire of the game. “Mr. Riese, Mr. Riese!” called the older girl. “Could you come play with us? You can be our net!”

  Mr. Riese laughed. He grabbed his duffle bag and walked to the edge of the pool near the girls. “I tell you what,” he said, “I’ll sit hear at the edge and stick my leg up. You can hit it over the top.”

  The younger girl squealed with joy, but instead of hitting the ball over Mr. Riese’s leg, she jumped up and hugged it with her two little arms, hanging a couple feet above the pool for a few seconds. Mr. Riese bellowed a low laugh and then kicked his leg up in the air, dunking it back down into the pool several times. Each time, the younger girl emerged with her head newly drenched, the joy escaping her body through raucous laughter. The older girl joined in on the other leg, and Mr. Riese began to scissor his legs to alternate the two girls up and down in the pool.

  Anwari smiled, but carefully held back a laugh. He recalled his mission and frowned. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and sighed. Allah give me strength. When his eyes opened, he saw Mr. Riese, still scissoring his legs, but staring at him. Anwari forced a smile and nodded slightly. Mr. Riese smiled back, and then continued another vigilant scan down the poolside. The sun had disappeared under some clouds and the first few drops fell to Anwari’s bare legs. A good excuse for a casual exit.