This is a work
of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
Chapter XV
In his senior year, Alex fell in love – wildly and completely – with petroleum and all its possibilities. Black gold, they called it, a smelly goo made up of partially decomposed dinosaur guts. But it was also exotic, and all consuming; it sucked you in like a tar pit, or maybe more like cocaine. And it fed cars and fed on those who drove them. Big oil - source of power and ruler of empires - it owned the United States, and it owned the great military beast which was America’s spawn.
Alex and Vivian were still going together, and on a scale of one to ten, his feelings for Vivian rated a nine and a half, while his passion for petroleum ran into the hundreds.
Stretched out on a couch in the commons room, scotch and soda in hand, Alex flipped through career magazines and brochures, puzzled, looking for a way into the industry.
“Remordia,” he said out loud. It was the first time he had used the word in years, the first time since he’d caused the break up between Vivian and Richard. (Actually, Alex would have said that he’d only helped it along, sped up the inevitable.)
‘Just a silly superstition,’ he thought to himself. Suddenly his head roared, swimming with power plays and plots. He saw himself juggling thousands of scenarios. Alex had never been this drunk on scotch, but his mind had never been sharper, or his thinking clearer. Petroleum called for the riskiest of schemes, and the skill to never get caught. Consequences were for others – for fools, weaklings, inferiors. Alex, like a cat, always landed on his feet.
Oil, or at least its future, lay in Middle East, the Holy lands, and their unholy passions and economics. Arabia – land of insurrections, disasters, and poverty.
To get what he wanted, Alex realized, he’d have to start the insurrections and cause the disasters; he’d have to make the chaos, and then bring order – Alex’s order - from it.
The roaring in his head dropped to a pleasant buzz. He had to own a fancy-boy United States president, he realized, one whom he could manipulate like a puppet. And Alex understood that his career path was to begin in the CIA.
And, for the image he needed, Alex should be married.
Vivian’s best friend Joselyn had invited her to spend the weekend after graduation with her in Providence, but, right before they were to leave, Joselyn called complaining of stomach cramps. “There’s no way I’m leaving my bed for anything except hot soup,” she said. And no sooner had Vivian hung up the receiver than Alex showed up on her doorstep.
“Can you believe it, Alex, she totally stood me up! Two minutes before she was supposed to show up, she calls and tells me she’s sick. She could have at least warned me. My bag’s all packed and I have no place to go.” Vivian lit up a cigarette and puffed in exasperation. “And she didn’t even sound all that sick.”
Alex tapped his chin with his finger. “So your weekend’s free?” He smiled at her and, with his hand at the small of her back, he picked up Vivian’s suitcase and steered her towards his car. “I can fix that,” he said. “Let’s go find some fun.” He stowed her bag in the trunk of his Mercedes convertible next to the ones he’d packed earlier with his own clothes. The top was already down as Vivian, still huffing, got into the passenger seat.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “Exams were brutal, and I really need some pampering.”
“Trust me,” he said and turned up the radio. Soon they were singing along to Norwegian Woods as he eased onto interstate 95. They sang and laughed, and Vivian brushed the hair out of her face. “Slow down, Alex,” Vivian said, but he didn’t.
“Look in the back seat,” he said, “inside that cowhide briefcase.” She looked, and found a bottle of champagne lying on a bed of crushed ice. A plastic baggie held two plastic fluted champagne glasses.
“Have I been set up or do you always carry champagne in your briefcase?” she asked, but Alex didn’t say anything. “Very nice champagne, I might add.” Vivian read the label while carefully dumping the crushed ice out of the briefcase and onto the road. “Dom Perignon, very nice indeed.” She popped the cork, and the two drank champagne and sang along with the radio. You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
Alex took another sip. “You’re right, I haven’t.” He laughed with gusto, and gunned the engine faster.
At Kennedy airport, Alex pulled up to the valet parking area. Waving a fifty-dollar bill in the air, he signaled for a skycap. “Air France,” he told the young man who had swung their suitcases onto a metal cart.
“Air France! You’re crazy, Alex. I can’t fly to France. I don’t have a passport.” So Alex handed her a small, brown bag. Inside she found a paperback book, a small box of Belgian chocolates, a crossword puzzle magazine, and a passport.
“Oh, Alex, it’s my passport with my photo. How did you manage?”
Alex shrugged. “I have my ways.”
“Where are you taking me? I have to at least tell my parents where I’m going,” she giggled. From the pocket of his jacket, Alex pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to her. “L’Hotel Republique, Les Halles 7-9, Rue Pierre Chausson, Paris, France.
“Oh, my gosh.” She put her hands up against her flushed cheeks and whooped in unadulterated delight. “I’ve never been to Paris. I’ve never been outside of the United States.”
They flew first class. Midway over the Atlantic Ocean, the stewardess presented Vivian with a stuffed panda bear wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a Yale sweatshirt.
“For my sweetheart, a Yalie with plenty of class. I love you, Alex.” The note was taped to the bear’s paw, and Vivian cuddled the bear next to her face.
That night they ate dinner in a lovers’ hideaway overlooking the Seine River. They drank champagne, and feasted on lobster, and crusty French bread, and green beans so fresh they snapped. A tapered candle cast dancing shadows on the linen tablecloth and a strolling musician played “Somewhere My Love” on his violin. And at the end of it all, as a waiter spooned flaming rum sauce over steamy fruit-filled crepes, Alex handed Vivian a small box. He didn’t get down on one knee and he didn’t ask her to marry him. As Vivian undid the ribbon and slowly opened the box, Alex came up behind her and kissed her neck, his lips lingering on her skin, tasting her essence. “You’re going to make the most beautiful bride in history,” he told her, while Vivian, scarcely believing what was happening, pulled out a two-carat engagement ring, and fitted it on the fourth finger of her left hand.
Chapter XVI
With a lopsided grin that stopped just short of an arrogant smirk, Alex breezed his way into the CIA. He was just what the agency looked for. The gift of gab, a touch of blarney, whatever you called it, Alex had it - a way of persuading people to do what he wanted. It seemed that Alex could talk anyone out of anything. - a most desirable trait for a CIA operative.
His talent for persuasion worked inside the agency as well. Alex managed to get whatever assignments he wanted. Geneva, Amsterdam, Florence – he’d seen so much of Europe that he may as well have been born there. And he usually managed to take an aide with him on assignment - generally a female aide with a body to stop traffic. But Alex never forgot his true love – petroleum. Most of the assignments he volunteered for focused on the Middle East.
1998
As her nails dried, Vivian lay back on a black leather recliner surrounded by brochures describing luxury cruises. If brochures had voices, these would be singing Calypso. And Alex and Vivian hadn’t gone away together in ages. She wondered if there was enough money in their savings for a two-week trip to somewhere with air conditioning and unlimited Mai Tai cocktails. Vivian had an allowance for household necessities, but Alex jealously kept track of their savings.
“Hey, luv, it's me. I need a favor.” Alex hoped Vivian wasn't going to make a fuss. “I'm leaving for Afghanistan. Pack some clothes for me, will you?”
It was all too abrupt. Vivian felt cold and prickly. “Just like that? You want me to pack your clothing and send you out the door. It seems like you just got back, and now you’re off again.”
“Have to. I'm leaving Friday. For Afghanistan.”
“Are you sure that's where you're going? You were just down there.” She didn’t mean to accuse him of anything. The words slipped out unbidden.
“Vivian, please try to understand. It's for our country – the U. S. of A. This is more than just a job, you know. It's my duty. I guess being patriotic is kind of passé these days, but I believe in this country. I have to go to Afghanistan, and that's what I'm going to do.”
“Don't I get a say in this matter? Aren't we ever going to talk about this?”
“Vivian, I don't have time for all of this. Just pack me up a couple of suitcases, will you. Set me up with the works.”
“How long this time?” Vivian had to obey him. She knew she could trust Alex. He was the epitome of honor. But still, she had the funniest feeling. Paranoid, that's what I am, she thought.
“Three to four months.”
“Will I be able to talk to you this time?”
Alex shook his head even though Vivian couldn't see him. “Probably not. I'll call you if I get a chance, but this is all top security.”
There was no sound on the other end.
“Are you sorry you married a spy?” He pouted. Of course Vivian couldn't see it, but she might hear it in his voice.
She did as a matter of fact, wish that he had a different job, but of course she couldn't tell Alex that. “Is a dangerous?”
Alex paused, and counted to three. He made his voice more intense, shooting the words out like cannon balls. “No, of course not. You don't have to worry about me.”
Vivian began to cry. She held the phone away from her face. Alex shouldn't hear her crying. She shouldn't make him feel any worse than he probably already felt.
“And I'll have to surprise for you when I come back. Promise.”
Vivian melted. “Oh Alex, you're just amazing! Of course you have to go. I’m just an old wimp wife. Can you forgive me for making such a fuss? And don't worry about a thing. I'll have you packed and ready with plenty of time to spare.”
He really did have to go to Afghanistan, and he'd leave right after the two-week vacation he had planned in Tuscany with Jennifer, his aide. Pleasure before business, he always said.
It was a mistake, Alex decided, a really colossal blunder, to have spent two weeks with Jennifer before his stint in Afghanistan. Better he should have spent an evening with Vivian’s grandmother discussing her constipation. At least he’d have been prepared.
Kabul was an oversized sand dune surrounded by oceans of - more sand. Like the deadly desert in some children’s story. Pale yellow dirt – khaki, puce, whatever. It went on and on.
Somehow all the women had disappeared, and there were only men – that was all Alex saw. Nothing but men, - he saw them, heard them, and on a truly hot day in the market he smelled them. The occasional swish of a burka – a walking mountain of fabric with an eye-level slit - was a monumental female sighting, for under that fabric was a woman – maybe twenty, maybe sixty. Maybe missing teeth or sprouting a beard, but at least it was female.
Alex was sitting in the market place like a tourist - taking photos, slapping at flies, and writing notes on a lined yellow pad with curled up edges, and trying not to die of boredom.
The United States had planned to build pipelines across Afghanistan, but all of that was on hold because of the Jihad against the United States. Alex was hoping to uncover something - anything - that could be used to improve America’s bargaining position, and he’d planted many listening devices, but, so far, he’d discovered nothing of value.
As far as Alex was concerned, the United States should get out and let the Soviets re-take Afghanistan, and then bargain with them for the pipeline. Afghanistan was as miserable a place as Alex had ever seen. The country had to hold some kind of record for coups and assassinations. And, as for entertainment, if you didn’t like praying to Allah, there wasn’t much to do on a Saturday night.
In the dusty air, Alex’s thoughts turned to Jennifer. He began to doodle in the bottom left hand corner. He tried to get a mental picture of Jennifer’s breasts. Ample - soft and ample, the center dark, almost the color of chocolate pudding, with nipples that popped straight up like twin soldiers. He tried drawing her breasts, but they ended up looking more like fried eggs.
A group of four turbaned figures were approaching, and Alex quickly flipped the page over on his tablet. In this country his thoughts of Jennifer were illegal, so he pretended to examine a display of coffee. Pictures such as he had been drawing were probably punishable by a flogging in this sand pile. In fact almost anything having to do with women was illegal in Afghanistan.
Three black-clad figures followed behind the men in turbans. They looked something like characters out of “Star Wars” – like desert spies cloned by the evil Empire. But, of course, they were women wearing burkas. Alex immediately raised his head to stare at the women. The smallest of the women had huge black eyes - the largest eyes Alex had ever seen. He stared intently, trying to picture the rest of the face hidden by the folds of her black scarf.
And then he did it. He couldn’t help himself. He’d simply gone too long without any fun. As the women walked by, almost as a reflex, he reached up and jerked the head scarf from the smallest woman’s head. She shrieked and grabbed for the scarf, then hid her face in her hands. The other two women huddled around her as she repositioned the clothing. They spoke in Arabic, their voices high pitched and angry. The words “bare faced,” muttered in the same tone as an American woman might say, “bare assed,” were all that Alex could understand.
Then the women hurried along, half running, half jogging, and Alex, chuckling, followed them with his eyes. They’d disappeared from sight, and Alex was savoring the memory of the women clucking like chickens, when he felt an insistent tug at his sleeve. “Mister want girls?” The voice cracked with puberty, and Alex almost laughed aloud. This was a boy – twelve years old – fourteen at the very oldest. He stood about five feet tall, and eight whiskers poked out from his chin. “Come with me tonight, Mister. I show you some girls.”
Alex turned back to the coffee, waiting until the other men had moved farther on.
“Seventy dinari, mister. You must meet me here at eight o’clock tonight. And I take you.”
Alex nodded the barest of nods. And the young boy grinned, an alarmingly wicked grin. Maybe the country had possibilities after all.
“Come with me, Mister.” The moon was full and already visible even though the sky was still light. The boy trotted at a good pace, and Alex followed him through the market streets, the market strangely silent after the bustle and noise of the day.
“What’s your name?” Alex asked.
“Ahmed,” he said. “What yours?”
Alex smiled. “Mister,” he said.
Then the boy turned and scrambled along a rocky path leading out into nowhere. “You follow me, Mister,” he said. After a quarter of a mile, Ahmed halted abruptly. “Seventy dinari, Mister.”
“Half now, half after I see your girls,” said Alex.
The boy grinned broadly. “Half now, half later,” he said.
The sky grew dark, but a blazing moon lit up the landscape. They walked on for another hour, Ahmed scampering like a small goat, and Alex struggling with the rocks in the darkness, and wishing for a flashlight each time that he lost his footing. The evening’s adventure lost some of its charm as Alex realized that he had no idea where he was.
“We are here, Mister,” said Ahmed indicating a small hut, or maybe a tent, huddled in the shadows of a rocky bluff.
The air was still. There was nothing and no one around him except for the boy and the one dwelling. He listened for sounds and there were none, save for a lone insect chirping a nocturnal mating call. The stillness was comforting after the heat and jostling of the afternoon, but it was eerie to be so far away from friends and colleagues.
“Remove your shoes, Mister,” said Ahmed. He shouted something Alex couldn’t understand, took off his sandals, and walked inside.
Alex bent to remove his sandals, then followed Ahmed. Inside was dark compared to the moonlit sands. As he opened his eyes wide trying to adjust his vision, he felt a sharp blade curve around his neck and hands grabbing his arms and searching him for weapons. Alex was thrown to the floor, and his hands and feet bound tightly with hemp.
When he could no longer move, small fingers fumbled through his pockets searching for coins. “Seventy dinari, Mister,” said Ahmed’s voice. “Thank you, Mister. I will keep the change.”
Now a turbaned figure approached Alex. He scowled menacingly, and in his right hand, he brandished a riding crop.
Fighting his panic, Alex stared defiantly at the Arab figure. “Do you know who I am?” Alex shouted. The man merely grinned. “I am Alexander Lidecker. I am an American citizen, and if you don’t release me immediately, I’ll report you to the United States consulate.” Now the man chuckled. “And you’ll spend the rest of your natural life in a filthy jail cell,” Alex added defiantly.
The man finally spoke. “Do you know who I am?”
“No” Alex answered.
“Good,” said the man raising his whip.
Alex had never experienced intense pain before. He knew that he should take the beating silently - that any screaming would be considered shameful, but he couldn’t help himself. He screamed; he begged; he cried; and in his pleading, over and over, he said the word, “Remordia.”
“Remordia.” As he said the word, a long howl broke from his throat, primitive like the moaning of a terrified, dying animal. And Alex was terrified. With the word, came a sense of foreboding that chilled him through to his soul.
Finally the beating was over. The man spit in Alex’s face. “In the market today - you thought to amuse yourself. You pulled a woman’s head scarf from her face. You made her to be seen bare faced in the market. In the streets, she was bare faced. Bare faced. You brought shame on her husband and on her father and on her brothers. You brought shame to her whole family.” And he spit on Alex once more. Then, still bound tightly, Alex was loaded into the back of a truck, driven to an isolated spot a mile outside of Kabul, and dumped onto the ground.
“You should be left to die,” said the man. Then he laughed, and threw a pocket knife to Alex. He gunned the engine, and the spinning wheels sprayed Alex with a stinging shower of sand as the truck pulled away in the moonlight.
‘Damn the CIA and damn this fuckin’ country!” Alex mumbled under his breath as he tried to work the knife with bound hands. It took Alex about an hour to cut through his ropes, and it took him most of the night to limp back to Kabul and to find his way back to his hotel.
By morning, Alex’s back and neck were stiff, and his hands and ankles were chaffed and bleeding where the rope had dug into his skin. For the first time in his adult life, Alex had gone through a whole night without thinking about women.
He’d learned all he could from the CIA. Fucking, stinking country; fucking, stinking job, thought Alex. He needed to talk to the Weasel. It was time for a career change.
Chapter XVII
Alex arrived at Kennedy airport at 2:46 in the morning, and Vivian met him at the gate. She wore a pink silk sheath that clung to her curves. The neckline was cut low and plunging, revealing a little bit of her breasts. Alex had always been a sucker for cleavage. She flung her arms around his shoulders. “Did you miss me?” she whispered brushing her lips against his neck.
“More than you know,” he said, “but I'm tired right now. I just want to sleep for about three hours and then I’ll show you just how much I missed you.”
Vivian swallowed and smiled. “Of course, Dear. I just wasn't thinking.”
Alex slept until noon. Vivian brought him coffee and eggs and bacon in bed, and afterwards they made love. She was eager and she smelled of damp skin and lavender. After the long absence, she was almost as exciting as Jennifer.
“Did you say you have to surprise for me?” Vivian wrapped her arms around Alex and nuzzled his neck playfully. She had been quite bored for the past four months and was ready for some excitement.
“I did mention something about a surprise.” Alex smiled. “How would you like to stay in a genuine mansion? A friend of mine just bought it, and we're invited over there any time I can get away. And the agency owes me the time. So how would you like to be wined and dined and pampered, and spend about a week or two being just plain spoiled rotten?”
“Oh, Alex, it sounds wonderful. Who's the friend?”
“Jeremy Scoggins.”
“You mean the Weasel?” Vivian had a way of wrinkling her eyes when she didn't like what she was hearing.
“He and I go way back,” said Alex.
“And he's one of the guys who raped me in college. I really don't want to see him again, ever.”
“Hey, Viv, he's grown up a lot since then. He's really matured.”
"But, Alex, remember, he…he…slept with me." That whole awful memory came back - the night that she couldn't remember, the shame and dread when Alex told Vivian how she had slept with three of his friends. And then, just when it looked like the night was going to bury itself, the horrible phone call from Richard. The sense of hopelessness came back as if it had all happened yesterday instead of year and years ago. Alex had been so sensitive back then, so thoughtful, and now he expected her to go and spend a week with probably her worst enemy. What was Alex thinking?
Oh, Christ, he thought. He should be taking Jennifer to Weasel's pad, not Vivian. It wasn't like him to screw up like that. But he really wanted to see Weasel. Somehow, Weasel had found a way to make a lot of money, and Alex needed to find out how he did it.
“And just whose fault is that? After the way you were waving your butt around that night it’s a wonder that only three men slept with you. God, Viv, after four months in Afghanistan, I need a little R & R. That country's brutal. You don't know the half of it.”
His words caught Vivian short. “Please, Alex, I don't want to go. Can't you just go by yourself, or something?”
Alex considered the idea. Go by himself and have Jennifer meet him at the Weasel's. But she'd used up all her vacation on the trip to Tuscany and wouldn't be able to get away. Two weeks at Weasel’s pleasure palace just wasn’t going to be the same without a woman. “Oh, that's going to look great! Like we're planning to split up or something. Wait a minute. Did you think the Weasel was a part of that rowdy trio the night of the fraternity party?”
“I’m talking about the night when I passed out and three of your friends took advantage of me. You said he was one of the guys.”
“You must have heard me wrong. Let’s see. There was Barney, and Joseph, and, oh, that skinny redhead with pimples. We called him ‘Scar Face.’ What was his name? Milton? Myron?”
“I don’t care what his name was. You said Weasel was one of the guys. I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe you slept with him some other night? You were a pretty hot dish back at Yale.”
She found herself shouting. “How could you even think that?” Why was she defending herself? And why, after all those years, was the pain and terror of that night still so strong?
“You’re the one who keeps insisting that you slept with him.”
“Well I didn’t unless he was one of the three guys who raped me that time I got drunk.”
“Raped? Pretty strong words. You’re sure there weren’t any other wild nights in the hay?”
“Of course not.” Vivian shuddered with disgust.
“Anyway, if you did sleep with him, Weasel's had so many girlfriends, he probably won’t even remember the night with you.”
Somehow Alex always managed to win these arguments. Vivian couldn't see how he did it. “All right, I'll go, but don't leave me alone in the same room with him.”
“If you didn’t sleep with him, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Alex wrapped his arms around Vivian gently, protectively. She didn’t want to spoil it by complaining about his words.
In spite of two gin and tonics and a mild tranquilizer, Vivian fidgeted during the entire flight to Panama. Old ghosts from that horrible college frat party kept nudging her, tightening her back, twisting up her stomach, and, for some reason her foot kept jiggling up and down, as if it had a mind of its own.
But as soon as they approached their destination, Vivian’s fears vanished. As the plane circled its approach into Panama City, she was blown away by the raw magnificence. The ocean sparkled blue below the clouds, and, as the plane descended, tiny dots of green islands poked up through the surf – closer and closer until Vivian could make out the rocky peaks and palm trees, and ripples of sandy beaches.
After they’d landed, she turned to Alex wide-eyed, like a small child. “Let’s get a cab or something,” she giggled, “and go exploring out in the rain forest. Look. We can be waist deep in jungle in about ten minutes.”
Alex frowned. “They’ll be waiting for us.”
“But no one’s here yet. We won’t stay long. Just a few minutes. Please.” Vivian pulled on his hand. Alex shrugged, grinned, and raised his arm to hail a waiting cab.
They bounced along in a fifteen-year-old pea-green Plymouth for no more than fifteen minutes before coming to a path angling off of the main road. It was barely wide enough for a feral pig to lumber through, but Vivian squeaked with pleasure, and, while the driver waited, Vivian and Alex got out and waded through the greenery. The effect was primordial. Vines crawled over everything they touched - trees, rocks, bushes - their leaves as large as Vivian’s face. Caws and chirps, unfamiliar to Vivian’s ears, and perfume from exotic flowers hung in the rain-drenched stillness. Forgetting her apprehension, Vivian drank in the sensations. The light, drizzling rain was warm, refreshing. Somehow the air renewed her spirits, as if she were Eve entering Eden for the first time.
But all too soon, they headed back to the airport where Weasel’s chauffeur was to meet them. The chauffeur turned out to be a helicopter pilot. His eyes sparkled and his face smiled. “Come with me please,” he beckoned, his voice rich and lazy, as if enjoying a joke no one else understood.
They boarded Weasel’s private helicopter for the final leg of their trip to the estate. It turned out that the Weasel had bought an unnamed island off the coast of Panama, and had built a 30,000 square foot mansion on the western end of it.
The Weasel greeted them at the front door. Tanned and muscular, he looked as if he’d quit aging sometime in his twenties. He wore a Speedo swimsuit, with a towel draped over one shoulder and a bikini-clad girl draped over his other one. “Meet Stephanie,” he said and smiled, lightly punching Alex’s arm, then embracing Vivian like a significant friend or longtime paramour.
He ushered them through the house and onto a veranda - a sumptuous expanse of cushioned rattan seats, lava rocks, and potted native trees bearing dark red orchids. Below them, a series of swimming pools lay in a semi-circle like pale blue islands, with waterfalls cascading from one pool to the next. Behind the pools, an expanse of rain forest stretched across the horizon, and behind the trees, only endless ocean.
“What are you two drinking?” Weasel asked. He called towards the house, and a manservant appeared as if materializing from the sound.
They settled on mimosas, and the manservant disappeared, and reappeared almost instantaneously with a bar cart. Vivian sipped, and looked around herself with the wonder of a child in Disneyland.
It took Alex and the Weasel little effort to persuade Vivian to try out the pools with Stephanie. “Have fun. Take your time. Alex and I’ll be inside when you’re done swimming.”
The Weasel gave Alex a quick tour through the house. “I’ve always wanted a mansion and now I have one.” Each room had a fireplace with a roaring fire, and the snapping and hissing of the burning logs drowned out the sound of the air conditioner. They circled through bedroom, billiards room, dining room, theater, library, and several rooms that had no name or function. Finally they ended up in the main living room, artfully furnished with copper-trimmed blue velvet couches and coffee and end tables topped by cobalt-blue glass.
“So life’s been good to you?” Alex leaned back against deep pillows.
“You have no idea.” The Weasel sipped on his mimosa. “I work for some of the largest business in the country, and profits are through the roof. And my partners are most appreciative of my creative business acumen. This little cottage…” And here he gestured to the walls around him. “All 34,978 square feet of it, sitting on 386 acres – I bought it with my bonus, a thank you for a job well done. I set up some trusts, partnerships, and subsidiaries that will make my partners even richer than they were before.
“That’s actually why I invited you out here. I have a business proposition for you; it should be to our mutual advantage. I’ll introduce you to my partners. They’re going to need a few favors and it’s going to be your job to deliver them. You know, Alex, my partners are very appreciative.”
And Alex and the Weasel did the goalpost dance, shouting in expected triumph, but Alex just had to say it: “I don’t see myself able to deliver any of the kind of favors you’re implying, certainly not anything to warrant a mansion on a private island.”
“Oh, you’ll be able to deliver much more than a mansion’s worth of favors. You’ll be saving our friends many billions of dollars. In fact, Alex, old boy, if all goes according to plan, you’ll eventually have yourself a job in the White House.”
Vivian shrieked like a teenager at the sight of their bedroom. “How amazing, Alex. I can’t believe we’re going to sleep in here!”
Alex just smiled knowing that Weasel had dubbed this his “play room.” The wall opposite the door had a solid floor-to-ceiling mirror on either side of a black-marble fireplace. The wall on the right was mostly covered by cherry-wood paneling hiding a wet bar and an entertainment center with many drawers, cupboards, and cubbyholes.
“I’ve got to see what’s inside these,” said Vivian opening up the cupboard doors. “Oh, Alex, look at all this stuff! She pulled out magazines - Playboy, Penthouse, and the rest she hadn’t ever heard of. And she found tapes – everything from romantic sonatas to hard porn. Vivian picked out one with a harem scene on the front. “Let’s play this one for laughs,” she said, and tossed it to Alex. Inside of another cupboard Vivian found neatly folded lingerie and teddies. A third one held a collection of toys: feathers, handcuffs, vibrators, some creams and lotions, a couple of small whips. “You’d think there’d be condoms in here!” said Vivian. “I wonder what’s in the drawers. Oh, Alex, is this cocaine? I’ve never tried sex with cocaine.”
Alex smiled. “You’re safe with me,” he said. He inserted the tape into the player; then, as Vivian snuggled up next to him. He pushed the button to begin the evening’s entertainment.
Afterwards Vivian slept, but Alex lay awake for a long time, and when he finally drifted off, the dream overcame him immediately.
It began in slow motion with Alex shivering next to a Weasel-man on the top of Harkness Tower back at Yale. “You,” said the Weasel-man to Alex. “Look down!” The voice commanded, and Alex, dizzy and disoriented, forced his gaze downward. From the tower’s lip, the Yale campus stretched out before him. The Weasel- man now stood by the main gate, hawking test answers, lecture notes, and other folders. “Friendships, loyalties, influence and connections,” he cried, “easy accolades, awards, and gold-embossed parchments. All yours, yours for a price.”
The gates opened revealing the entire city of New Haven, then the whole Eastern seaboard. “Yours,” the voice repeated. “All yours.” Elation replaced the sense of vertigo as the scene below Alex stretched out farther and farther. Wall Street, Mt. Rushmore, Hollywood – even the White House - they all fit inside the boundary of his great, grand shadow. And all the while, dollar bills– drab green snowflakes - fell from the sky onto the earth below. People danced like puppets. “Yours,” said the Weasel-man,” all yours.” And he threw back his head and laughed. Starlets, reporters, and robot senators whirled and bowed. As bombs exploded above like Fourth of July fireworks, a miniature army goose-stepped before him- an army complete with airplanes, ships, and tanks.
“Will… you… pay… my… price?” Weasel-man’s voice echoed up the stone walls of the tower.
Like a Colossus, Alex looked down upon the earth beneath him, his legs wide apart spanning the better part of a hemisphere. Mountains, oceans, and cities stretched out under his crotch, and billions of people darted about, living out their lives under him like wind-up toys, all part of a giant machine. Oil poured up from the earth. “Yours,” the voice repeated, “All yours.”
And Alex understood in a flash of feelings that went beyond words - it wasn’t the luxuries he could buy that were important. Oh, they were nice and made life sweet. But it went far beyond that. Riches meant power, the ultimate thrill - higher, deeper stronger than any drug. Power, to make him the most important man on earth. Everyone would look at him and bow. Even his father would be forced to humble himself to Alex. “Yes,” said Alex. “Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes!”
The weasel’s pointed finger poked through Alex’s abdomen burning him as if with heartburn, but throughout his body. “Will…you…pay…my…price?”
“Yes, oh yes, yes, yes!” Alex woke himself with his own screaming. The thrill of the vision buzzed through and throug him, as though his blood were made of champagne.
“What is it, Alex!” Vivian was alarmed. “You were screaming in your sleep. Is something wrong? Were you dreaming?”
“You have no idea!”
The next morning, Vivian woke thinking that she’d never slept like that in her whole life. “Will we ever be able to afford a place like this?” Vivian asked Alex. They were lying between satin sheets in a very large bed – larger than king-size. She held his arm and her fingernails dug slightly into his flesh. “Oh, will we, Alex? It would show the world that you’ve made something of yourself, that you’re someone to take seriously.”
That’ll be the day, thought Alex. For some reason a vision of his father jumped into his head, a vision of his father nodding in approval. Yes, he thought, the day will come and that will be the day.
“Four years, Baby,” he said out loud. “You’ll have your own mansion in four years, and five years from now, you’ll have the whole world.”
Chapter XVIII
Memories of the Weasel’s mansion stayed with Alex as he prepared for his interview. The Weasel had given Alex a two-foot stack of papers, magazines, and scientific treatises, to study. Most were economic projections. All were written in English, but some were obviously translations.
Alex began with the pictures, side-by-side photos of glaciers: historical photos next to recent photos, and the significant glacier melt was obvious. In Alaska, melting permafrost, and increasingly violent storms were eroding the coastline. It was only a matter of time before the Alaskan village of Shishmaref would have to be evacuated.
Elsewhere, low-lying islands were disappearing, going under the rising tide resulting from all that glacier melt. Roads buckled; bamboo houses sloshed in the water. This was global warming. ‘Fascinating,’ thought Alex, ‘the destructive power of nature, the evidence of a world gone out of kilter!’ But how was Alex to profit from it?
Other pollution problems could be fixed by outwitting the EPA, or by hiring good lawyers, or, as a last resort, with scrubbers, and engineering designs and hazardous waste haulers. But global warming was different. Carbon dioxide is a major greenhouse gas and the natural product of burning. The only solution to global warming is to burn less fuel. The remedies are solar, wind power, hydroelectric, mass transit, and curbing population growth. And these remedies all translate into less profit for the petroleum industry.
The Weasel hadn’t given Alex much detail. “Make global warming go away. Just ‘poof’ the issue,” he’d said. “Oh, and a tip with these folks - they’re used to winning. So act like you’re rich, and talk like you can deliver anything.”
The meeting began with introductions, since Alex didn’t know any of the five men present.
“Dr. Pomerleau.”
“Professor Snavey.”
They did not give out their first names, probably to make it clear to Alex that they were not on a first-name basis.
“Dr. Boone.”
“Dr. Smythe-Huntington.”
Then there was silence as the fifth man surveyed the room squinting, his head barely shifting from right to left. His features were dark - his eyes jet black, his skin a sandy brown that spoke of deserts and turbans. A sharp black goatee emphasized his pointed chin. He wore western clothes with a curious golden tie tack fashioned in the shape of a crescent and sickle. “Mr. Efendi,” he finally said with a faint smile.
Dr. Pomerleau began the meeting with a video of a spectacled scientist scowling over his dire predictions: melting glaciers, more floods, and stronger hurricanes, followed by rising temperatures, droughts and famines. The coral reef shots - warmer oceans had left bleached skeletons where healthy corals had once lived - were bleak enough for Alex to consider the benefits of solar power. The film clip ended with the scientist’s parting message. “We have to diversify into greener energy from sustainable resources - now, while there’s still time. We can do this. We have the financial capability.”
“Meet our enemy, Dr. Killjoy,” said Dr. Pomerleau. He looked around the table. “Any thoughts?” he asked. “Mr. Lidecker, I believe this is what you’re here for.”
Dr. Boone’s face had gone white.
Alex cleared his throat, preparing to make this group his own. “My friend, I offer you a choice. I present to you two options - two paths as different as candy and strychnine.” He paused and grinned. “We can corner the market on green energy. Develop solar power that’s cost efficient, but not too cost efficient, if you see my meaning. Branch off into wind and hydro power. If we jump on the sustainable energy bandwagon early, there’ll be plenty of profits for us. We could even invest in bicycles and running shoes”
His comments were met by silence. Meanwhile, Alex discretely surveyed the room. Dr. Boone was actually considering Alex’s proposal. Smythe-Huntington’s face squeezed itself into a grimace. He probably wanted to feed Alex to an endangered species. Pomerleau and Snavey scowled slightly. Mr. Effendi, like Alex, was trying to interpret the others’ body language.
Dr. Smythe-Huntington finally spoke. “For the price of a bicycle, we can sell about two months worth of gasoline. I’d rather sell gasoline than put myself out of business. The sustainable resources market does not sustain itself, and the profit margin is unacceptable.”
Dr. Boone stood up. “Gentlemen, I’ve said it before. We must at least make a token attempt at developing green energy. Think of the negative publicity such disasters could create. Photos of dying children superimposed on refinery stacks…”
Dr. Pomerleau was scornful. “No serious disasters will occur until the polar ice caps and glaciers melt. And that’s a good forty years away. So far, if scientific estimate is accurate, the oceans have risen a mere five to six inches. I figure most of that extra heat goes into melting ice instead of turning up the temperature. By the time the earth actually starts heating up, we’ll all be dead, or so old we won’t care what temperature it is.”
“Besides,” smiled Mr. Efendi, “we will not be the ones without air conditioning.” Everyone laughed.
“And the melting ice?” Boone asked. “If you don’t care about the rest of the world, what about the United States? What are we supposed to say when hurricanes eat up our coasts, and the low lands flood?”
Dr. Pomerleau laughed – it was more of a sneer. “The only people destined to see flooding live in third world countries. Bangladesh is so accustomed to floods, it won’t know the difference. Some islands will become uninhabitable, but, again, the people are poor. They’ll say that it’s the will of Allah, or that they are being punished for their sins, and they’ll find themselves another home. Who’s going to blame us for that? It’s their own fault for choosing such places to live.” The group, including Alex, chuckled. “So we send ‘em a million dollars, demand control of their governments, and come away smelling clean as a baby’s butt after bath time.”
Dr. Snavey chimed in. “Meanwhile, the United States may see a little more water - higher oceans and stronger storms. Maybe a few more hurricanes in the gulf. That’s it. Nothing we can’t handle. Do you really see the U.S. of A. knuckling under to some bad weather?”
Mr. Efendi barked a laugh. “Do you see the average American taking the bus?” He chuckled to himself. “Americans judge a man by the car he drives, the size of his house, and number of electrical gadgets he owns, not by his frugal use of fossil fuels.”
“Not all Americans…” said Dr. Boone.
“Besides,” said Dr. Pomerleau, “it’s already too late. America’s life style depends on burning petroleum. We can’t go back.”
“In that case, gentlemen,” Alex said, “I present you with the second option. How much money are you willing to throw at the problem? Because we’ll need a lot of it. Here’s the spin. First we hire our own experts to dispute the whole idea.” As Alex saw it, some would die and some would profit. They would have to be prepared for the disasters. There was nothing that a little spin couldn’t fix.
He licked his lips and continued. “We say this. Global warming isn’t about science. It’s superstition. Their so-called scientists may as well be reading tarot cards as scientific instruments.” Alex smiled, feeling his power returning. “It’s all in the presentation, not the science. The message doesn’t matter. Say it as if you mean it, say it loud enough, and often enough, and don’t get bogged down with facts.” The others laughed.
“Everyone has a price,” Alex went on, “so we look for people down on their luck - recent graduates looking for jobs, older workers who got laid off. Hell, they don’t even have to have degrees in science. Any PHD will do. Or just put ‘Dr.’ in front of their names; no one’s going to worry if it’s real.”
Dr. Smythe-Huntington scowled, annoyed by Alex’s trivializing the degree.
‘For a price,’ thought Alex. Somehow the phrase felt haunting. “Everyone has a price,” he said. “So we buy enough people, put enough force into the message, and we sneer a lot at the global warming concept. And people believe us just because we’re loud and arrogant. More than experts, we need scientific organizations, legitimate sounding ones.”
Ideas gushed from his mouth like flash flood waters. The scheming took on a life of its own. “Glaciers aren’t melting – the photos came from inside a freezer. Crackpot environmentalists are using “global warming” to get grant money. And later, when we can’t ignore it any more, we say it’s just a natural phenomenon. And they’ll buy it, no matter how quickly we warm up the planet.”
Alex heaped it on thick. “We need the power of the press on our side. The easiest way is to buy it. Start buying up newspapers – we’ll eventually need the whole industry.” The room laughed. “Everyone has his price. That includes reporters.”
“Next we find religious leaders – men of the cloth to preach our word. God, and only God, has power over the earth. That lets us off the hook. God could destroy a forest, but only a goddamn environmentalist would presume that a mortal could do it.” Alex looked around the room. The men scarcely moved and no one made a sound. “Remember the Book of Revelations with all the disasters, the one prophesying the end of the world. That’s God’s domain. Not ours. So we all look innocent - rich, and powerful thanks to fossil fuels, but completely innocent.”
Dr. Snavey peered over his glasses. “Lidecker,” he said. “You are…not…one of us. Remember that.”
Alex ignored him and went on. “The Book of Revelations says it all - war, famine, pestilence and death. It’s God’s doing – not ours.”
“You’re crazy, Lidecker.” This came from Dr. Smythe-Huntington. “Americans aren’t imbeciles. And we’ve gone and educated the lot of them.”
“Read Hitler’s works,” said Alex. “Hitler was a master at it. They’ll believe what we say because they want to. They want to keep on driving.”
“And besides,” said Pomerleau, “we can always blame global warming on the gays.” That did it. They all laughed like eight-year-olds after a fart joke.
Alex looked around the room. He’d won. He’d wormed his way in. No matter what Snavey said, he was, indeed, one of them. Global warming was just the first hurdle. What Alex was proposing was a bid for ultimate power – with global domination the end result.
“One more thing,” said Alex. “Promote the sale of SUVs. Encourage bigger houses and more electrical appliances. We need to sell petroleum now – before it gets too hot to pump it out of the Middle East.”
“Lidecker,” said Dr. Boone, “Do you go to church?”
“No.” Alex wondered if he should have lied.
“Then you’d better start going.”
“Of course.” It only made sense.
Chapter XIX
At first the idea of church felt uncomfortable to Alex - in fact it was downright distasteful. He put it off for as long as he could, but, eventually, he began looking for the right church to be seen in. He shopped for his church the way he would shop for a car - looking for power, style, luxury, and comfort in his residence of worship. It should be a right-wing fundamentalist church. The people he wanted to impress - people with lots of money to donate – were mostly fundamentalists – “The Bible says it. I believe it. That settles it.” Solid, godly folk. Good people. Alex squirmed at the idea, but spent an afternoon at the library boning up on different faiths, ran a well-manicured finger through the “churches” section of the yellow pages and finally circled “Holy Final Words Church of Washington D.C.”
He figured that he didn’t have to show up at church every Sunday - just often enough that he could say that he and his wife attended regularly. And he could always send Vivian by herself to represent the Lideckers. It would still count for him being a congregational member, and, as a member of the White House staff, anyone would understand why he was often too busy to attend.
The church was an impressive three-story building, and the worship space rose the entire three stories, with the pews circling the altar in tiers. Modernistic stained-glass windows ran from the floor at the bottom to the ceiling. Cobalt blue dominated the windows, imparting a calm, mysterious aura.
The young preacher knew what the congregation wanted to hear. The songs were catchy. Alex learned early on that sin and salvation referred to others only, and found that there were many pleasant aspects to attending church. Certain catch phrases in the Bible spoke to him - as if they’d been written for his ears alone.
He liked the psalms. Some of them read like adventure movies. “Let burning coals fall upon them; may they be thrown into the fire, into miry pits never to rise.” This was a God who knew how to put on a good show. “He who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.”
And then there was the whole crucifixion scene!
Chapter XX
The best part of writing newspaper columns, thought Johanna, was getting mail. It was exhilarating to know that someone read her work. Of course not all of her readers agreed with everything she wrote, but Johanna relished the controversy. “It shows that people are alive and thinking,” said Ivan. And so she wrote:
The Earth’s Story
I’ve always been amazed at how closely the Bible and the lab agree. As I see it…
In the beginning God created the Heavens and the earth. And God said “Let there be light.”
And the earth woke to the light and felt the Spirit of God at work, forging, creating, dividing the light from darkness.
A “big bang,” is what they’d call it later. They’d study the relics and clues – some awed and amazed at God’s creative powers, others, in arrogance, boasting of scientific discoveries as if their discoveries lessened the wonder of God’s masterpiece.
Earth’s rhythm was God’s rhythm. The seas lapped at the dry lands, frothy edges ebbing and flowing. And she waited, a mixture of rocks and chemical soup, until God breathed life into her, and she brought forth the first life – microorganisms, creatures of ooze and slime, flashes of life that glimmered and died.
Grasses and fruit trees grew, each seed and fern a display of His perfection. Moving creatures stirred in the waters. They lived, and ate, and died, and some left traces in the mud - footprints of their passage through God’s time.
And God saw that it was good. It was life, and it was very good.
Earth felt God’s creating hand. ”Let your will be done,” she said, turning on her axis. And, oh, the animals! Marching through the millennia poked, prodded, modified in God’s time: claws scuttering through primordial seas; many-legged worms in chitin armor; living stars, nourished by the bountiful feasts born on the tides.
A pterodactyl swooped on Earth’s air currents, his first flight - clumsy, and halting. Then hair and feathers, and, more wonders - mothers who tended their young, the beginnings of love.
And finally, weak and naked, Adam and Eve peeped into Gods light. They found food. They hid from claws and fang, and they were fruitful. And, more than the teeming life that had come before, they knew love and they knew God.
Others sensed it – the mother monkey licking her young’s soft fur, the seal pup slurping life from his mother’s teat. But humans, with their gifts of reason and language, they could understand God’s love, feel God’s spirit coursing through them heartbeat by heartbeat.
Ages passed and the clever humans survived and thrived. They learned Earth’s secrets. They studied the plants that healed diseases, and learned how to cultivate crops. The weak, squirming humans survived and flourished. Who would have believed it? In a cosmic wager, who would have believed that the puny humans would have done so well!
They discovered, built, and invented and became powerful. Fire, tools, elaborate houses, roads, lamps to light the dark nights, and vessels to carry water. Then gunpowder, and with it the ability to protect or to destroy. What will the humans do with it, Earth wondered. So much power, wonderful and terrible all at the same time!
Uranium, penicillin, genetic engineering, and psychology - what tools! So great! But were the humans ready?
And that’s when Earth first felt the sickness.
“Dear God,” said Earth, “please hear my prayer. In the beginning I’d planned to live forever. Human beings are your finest work, and my death. Each is precious, each is special, and there are too many for me to hold in my arms.
“I’m dying, God. It’s only spring. And already I can feel the fever start. My snows melt. My crust dries into cracked clods. Hate rises too in the swirling in the dust devils.”
Can we say that we love God and, at the same time, destroy his greatest work?
By Johanna Jacobson
