"Yes, Sor Roberta, I'll take care of her," Juan Alfonso said.
Roberta smiled and shooed them off. "You know what I mean."
"We do." Marisol felt loved and protected from all sides.
They set off by bus from Ángel Guardián to explore the Plaza de Armas, including the ancient cathedral built on the site of an Incan temple, and the changing of the guard at the Palacio de Gobierno. Spending a whole day together away from the orphanage for the first time made them giddy as
eight year olds. They laughed more than they talked, until a late-afternoon bus brought them home.
"I never had a more perfect day," Marisol said as they entered through the broad iron gate.
* * *
I'll Paint a Sun
(Sample)
Prologue
In the morning when I awake, I stretch my hands over my expanding belly, measuring the widening distance between my fingertips. I feel you move within me and I speak your name. Tobías. We'll call you Toby. How different your childhood will be than mine, lived in cramped quarters on heavily trafficked, windswept streets of one of the world's great commercial and tourist centers.
I've stepped back generations in time into an unfamiliar culture to live among a people I long to understand and become part of. I perch here free as a seabird, gazing out from the uneven flagstone terrace of our new home. My eyes feast on the South Caribbean's turquoise expanse while, at my feet, the serene Santa Magdalena shoreline stretches left and right. My lips taste the salty breeze which invites me to open my silk robe and let the mild, humid air slip across my swollen abdomen like your father's gentle hands in the night. My senses fine tune to island sounds and tropical fragrances having no particular point of origin. The melodies and scents of happiness, I call them.
The waves await their turn to tumble shoreward with the rush of a première danseur leaping across a broad stage. Their sudsy fingers claw at the white-sand beach before returning to rest in deeper water before making another run at the shore.
With golden sunlight filtering through my closed eyelids, I marvel that healing and new life have replaced my vow of a year ago, never to trust another man as long as I possessed sound mental and emotional faculties. Healing. No other word describes our experience. I inhale . . . heal . . . caressing the silent sound and exhal . . . ing. My spirit breathes its gentle rhythm. The cadence anoints me with its sacred oil. You, Toby, are its fruit, its prize and celebration.
Your father's restoration during this time has been even more unlikely than my own. Scarred men and women--children too--pilgrimage to the world's designated holy places praying for renewal of body and soul. Our miracle happened in the City of St. Francis. Quite by chance, if one believes in coincidence. I don't, not any more.
On the turbulent SFO-to-Miami flight, I read Message In a Bottle. Garrett Blake's love letters to his deceased wife brought such sadness to my heart that I exhausted my supply of tissues and soaked your father's handkerchief. When the book ended, I napped, head resting on his shoulder. I dreamed of sea-tossed bottles and sealed-in treasures. I remember saying to someone in my dream, "We're all corked bottles, each with our deepest truths sealed inside."
We devoted our first days on the island to patching the frayed cloth of your father's relationship with your grandparents. Amid tears and laughter, the principals of that divided trinity have let go of old hurts and reknit bonds of love like fragments of shattered bone. I've fallen in love with these good people who welcomed their prodigal home without question, if not without the lingering pain of his leaving them. They have drawn me, a stranger and foreigner not-yet fluent in their language, to their bosoms with such open-hearted hospitality that I have vowed to model my parenting after their example.
A local real estate broker found us this furnished beachfront mansion that belonged to international recording star Eduardo Colón whose name is spoken with reverence on this island.
"The only item Señor Colón and his new bride took with them to Paris was the grand piano," the broker told us. Minus the massive instrument, the conservatory looks like a glassed-in ballroom. You'll love playing in it. Why the Colóns left everything is a mystery to me. Did some tragedy scar the tables, chairs, beds, and mirrors, sending the newlyweds in pursuit of fresh dreams far from home? If so, I identify with their need.
It will take me years to integrate the events that brought me to this place. I began this year in despair, facing bankruptcy. Can it now be true that every brick and nail and pane of glass in this villa estate belongs to us, paid for in cash? The deck I stand on? The spacious bedroom in which we sleep? The broad pool we swam in last evening and made love in the night before? If you've paid attention, you'll come into the world knowing all about the birds and bees. What a relief that will be to your father.
Okay, Toby. That was a certifiable kick.
I'm your bottle, aren't I? Impenetrable green, like a liter of rich red wine. You, the unreadable message. Are you running out of patience with the sealed safety of my womb? Are you ready to embark on the adventure we earthlings call Life? I want to know you, learn your deepest desires, discover what makes you happy and sad. How I'd love to fast-forward, to see how you'll fulfill your destiny.
Not true.
I'm an impatient woman but I'd rather walk that unpredictable road with you, each day marking a single step along your life-path. I'll thrill with your every new discovery, rejoice in the measured unfolding of your inner spirit. Will the stories you tell your children come close to matching the ones we'll tell you on nights when tropical storms lash at the windows testing the endurance of our house? I can't bear the thought of you suffering, of ever losing your way as we did.
Two mourning doves just landed on the fountain in the corner of the terrace. I wish you could see how the jacaranda trees have spread a soft lavender welcome mat for them. These loving creatures remind me of a TV show in the States about divine messengers with the mission to heal the wounded, restore sight to those blind in spirit. If there's one thing your mom knows about, Toby, it's angels. I have two of my own. Let me tell you the miracle story of how our little family came to be.
* * *
Finding Isabella
(Sample)
1
Summer 1999
They called her La Coneja, the mother rabbit. She had once been a vibrant student at the Colleggio Santa Lucia. Skin pure as olive oil, matching that of her adoptive parents, complemented intelligence that flashed with intuition and wit. She had set her sights on a career in journalism. In fact, at the time of her disappearance, she had a firm job offer from the Italian daily, Il Mondo di Oggi. That had been long ago, in another place, during another life.
She squatted on the dirt floor in the corner of her thatched hut. The coarse coffee-sack shift that only a few months ago had hung loosely about her skinny frame now bulged at the belly. This was her third pregnancy since they picked her up in the heart of Santa Catalina and whisked her to the first of many makeshift prisons.
To distract herself from loneliness and the oppressive Caribbean heat, she recited the story of who she had been . . . before her abduction. Had it all been a dream? she wondered, as her ability to recall facts and images gradually weakened.
Each time, the same man had raped her. That wasn't how he termed their couplings. At first, she had fought him off but he was too strong, too violent. Gradually, she gave up. With surrender, she lost all hope of returning to her former life as Lydia Vitale.
In this state of degradation, all she had to look forward to was being pregnant. Each new life that grew inside her affirmed that she was alive, if not loved.
For Lydia, knowing always that her keepers waited, ready to receive the newborn who bore her blood and likeness, was worse than labor pains. They won't even tell me if it is a boy or girl! Her babies never heard the lyrical lullabies learned from her adoptive mother.
Left in solitude to recover from the pain of childbirth, the discomfort of br
easts swollen and aching for her infant, Lydia could only speculate about its fate. There was no way to find out. Her captors had cut her off from the world. Even the matrons who guarded her and monitored her daily activities excluded her from their little world of social gossip.
During long nights when sleep refused to relieve the frightening nightmares, the residue of many beatings and humiliations, she queried whatever spirits might care to listen, Are my babies with the man who fathered them? Perhaps they have been adopted by wealthy Santo Sangríans. Or-- The thought ripped her heart. Sold into slavery . . . even murdered? She prayed they hadn't been put in the hands of filthy child molesters.
The greatest pain of all was knowing it would happen again . . . and again.
"As long as you can have babies," her captors told her, "you will serve your country by replacing those stolen from us."
By the time she realized she was pregnant for the third time, Lydia had stopped wondering about her offspring. She lived within herself, tapping into a diminishing store of happy memories, recreating scenes of her childhood home in the sunny hills of Tuscany.
2
February 2000
A sudden bump jarred Analisa from sleep. Outside the Bonanza J35, the Central California sky had blackened. Crystal flakes clung to the Plexiglas windows.
"I've switched on the transponder," her dad muttered. "That'll get red lights flashing at the radar stations."
"Where'd this storm come from?" Terror added an unnatural rasp to her mother's words. "It wasn't supposed to arrive till after we got back to Orange County."
Suddenly alert, Analisa asked, "Where are we, Dad?"
"Can't tell for sure. The VOR's malfunctioning. Should be over Gorman. We're drifting west." He switched his communication radio to 121.5, the Mayday frequency. "That'll alert Los Angeles Center." With his usual composure, he pulled a cloth rag from under the seat and leaned forward to wipe the inside of the windshield. His left thumb pressed the radio button located at the top of the steering column. "Mayday. This is Bonanza 547 Bravo." His cool, professional tone gave Analisa confidence that he had the problem under control.
"547 Bravo, this is Los Angeles Center. What is your problem?"
"I'm icing up and I'm--" He paused to clear his throat. "I'm losing control of the aircraft."
Icing! Analisa knew what that meant. He had described the process to her in detail. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. The Bonanza had no de-icing capability. She visualized super-cooled water hitting the wings and freezing instantaneously.
"Claire, see if you can find us on the En Route Low Altitude Chart."
"Oh God!" she breathed. "Are we heading for Mount Pinos? John, that's almost nine thousand feet!"
"Maybe we'll get lucky and find a road or an open space to set her down in," he said. "One thing's sure. Radar's got a bead on us. Bells are ringing and red lights flashing all over the place. The emergency crews will probably be waiting for us wherever we set this baby down."
"What are our chances?" she said, as the Marconi family's long-faithful airplane surrendered the sky foot by precious foot.
"Do you believe in miracles?"
"Yes," Claire whispered.
Analisa clenched her fists and prayed. The weekend with her parents at Lake Tahoe faded so far into the past, it was as if it never happened. They had celebrated her finishing graduate school and landing a plum job with a San Francisco-based international marketing firm. In a week she'd be moving permanently from Anaheim to the Bay Area.
"547 Bravo, we have your location radar fix."
"See," John said. "What did I tell you?"
Analisa sighed with relief. "Thanks, God."
"You're at 7,000 feet and heading into--"
A sickening crunch jarred the fuselage.
"Shit!" Analisa's dad shouted over the noise. "Clipped a goddamn treetop! Hang on!"
"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry," her mother prayed. "I detest all my sins . . . ."
It felt as if every snow-laden limb in the forest was taking a whack at them, upset that this alien aluminum dart had intruded upon their peaceful winter day.
"I love you both!" she heard her dad say.
Analisa's brain returned the message, "I love you too, Mom, Dad," but in the millisecond it required, everything became a colorless blur. She couldn't be sure the words ever came out of her mouth or that her parents had heard them.
The Bonanza emitted a death-agony roar as it ripped its way through snow-muted pines in search of a final resting place. Analisa had a vague awareness of wings ripping from the fuselage. She imagined irate branches lashing out and puncturing the gas tanks as the plane streaked by. "Please, Lord, no fire!"
Despite Analisa's horror, some part of her brain kept processing. She felt a sense of anticipation.
What's it like to die?
Will I be awake when it happens?
The questions came as flashes, pure, wordless consciousness, involving neither speech nor thought.
Is death the end of everything?
With a final, violent jolt, the plane came to a grinding stop. Analisa's seat belt tore away from its anchors, hurtling her forward into the backs of the seats occupied by her parents.
With whatever conscious thought was left in her, she envisioned being consumed in a thunderous fireball, scorching her flesh before it killed her.
* * *
The Wisdom of Les Miserables
(Sample)
PREFACE
Wisdom has suffered from short supply during the war-ravaged history of the past two centuries. That poverty continues into our own twenty-first century. This book is a plea for wisdom, not only in the public arena, which can seem beyond our meager influence, but at its very root in the life experience of ordinary men and women. If each of us can grow in wisdom--even a little--and manifest that growth in our daily attitudes and behaviors, we have power trigger a spiritual and moral revolution that will spread a balm of peace and harmony over our troubled world.
What is wisdom? In Les Miserables, Victor Hugo shuns an academic "wisdom is . . ." form of definition. Instead, he reveals its qualities in the person of his main protagonist, Jean Valjean. The story begins with a spontaneous act of kindness done to the former convict by the self-effacing Charles-Francios-Bienvenu Myriel, Bishop of Digne. In turn, Jean Valjean pays that gift forward in charity to the poor and fair wages to his workers. He risks his life to save another's and adopts as his own daughter Fantine's child, Cosette. He surrenders to the law, rather than allow an innocent man to be imprisoned in his place. He forgives and spares his lifelong pursuer, Inspector Javert. Often, he wrestles with God, Jacob-like, seeking escape from the demands of conscience, only to resolve in the end to do what is right and just.
Hugo understood the wretched consequences for marginalized people (les miserables) when societies fail to learn from past generations' mistakes. The author's interior life, fueled by faith in God and activism for social justice, gave his literary voice power to move readers' emotions and rethink their attitudes and opinions.
In Jean Valjean, Hugo provides a moral compass for principled living. He offers his readers hope that it is possible to exercise freedom of conscience, choosing right over wrong in a difficult, sometimes hostile social and political environment.
INTRODUCTION
The inspiration for this book came to me in the early 1990s, as I wept through the final scene of Boublil and Schonberg's musical version of Victor Hugo's novel, Les Miserables. From its darkened perch in the balcony of San Francisco's Curran Theater, my heart flew to the bedside of the dying Jean Valjean. Over the course of the evening, this fictional hero had moved me with his tale of conversion, forgiveness, and moral fidelity. I wanted to be at his side as he uttered these final words to his beloved daughter Cosette: "To love one another is to see the face of God."
That magical experience led me to read the unabridged novel for the first time and subsequently to deeper immersion in
Hugo's text.
When the show returned for a repeat engagement a few years later, my wife and I saw it again, this time with our two elementary school-age daughters. I am not embarrassed to admit that tears flowed again from opening curtain to the final reprise of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" My own little Cosettes became enthralled with the story and the magnificent music—and have remained so into their adult lives. During the year that followed, we wore out an original cast cassette by playing it to and from school every day.
A marvel of Hugo's story is its universal appeal. Set amid the political and social volatility of France during the first half of the nineteenth century, Les Miserables is still, in the words of author Mario Vargas Llosa, "one of the works that has been most influential in making so many men and women of all languages and cultures desire a more just, rational, and beautiful world than the one they live in."1
I discovered in Jean Valjean the essential qualities of principled living. For one like me, a Christian who is always in process, Hugo's protagonist embodies the core values and ideals passed to me through my religious tradition. From this experience, I conceived a desire that grew into a passion. What if I could spend some time with Jean Valjean? What might I learn about life, love, and compassion for the poor from this former-convict-turned-saint? What might I share of this gift with others?
I originally planned to identify and draw upon themes from the novel. I have done that. Then, I intended to create a series of philosophical-theological essays based on those themes. I have not done that.
A new dynamic intervened along the way, and I followed the prompt of my creative instinct. Having meditated my way through the novel, I found it impossible to keep my own life experience at a safe distance from the work. Jean Valjean's journey from living death to redeemed life led me to review significant moments in my history. Like Hugo's protagonist, I have undergone a series of incarnations that have made me who I am today. Out of this examination has emerged, in part, an out-of-sequence memoir. Each new topic became an adventure in surprise that caused me, at different times, to shed tears of joy and cringe from memories long dormant.
While writing this book, I created a blog where I posted early-draft samples of the reflections that appear on these pages. In response to one of them, international photographer and graphic designer Michele Roohani2 wrote with great wisdom and insight: "I read Hugo's masterpiece in French and Persian (my mother tongue) years ago. It's amazing how Hugo's book is relevant in my birth country, Iran. Cosette, Gavroche, Javert and even Eponine are known to millions of Iranians! Jean Valjean, a hero. Humanity knows no country, no boundary, no color or religion."