I'll Remember Too - A Short Story

I’ll Remember Too
A Short Story by
Tony Killinger

I wonder now, looking back over the valley of so many years, if I thought there was an unlimited supply of mornings like that, waking with the scent of incense in my nostrils, feeling the soft touch of sleeping fingers on my back? Could I have been that naïve, that unaware of how precious such a morning can be? Entwined bodies, living in a paradise, ruled by instinct rather than practicality, pretending love because caring came so easily, where just about everything was wrapped in a beautiful cloak of temporary existence? Somehow, I must have known the incense would burn away and the cloak would be used to fend off the all too cold world I had known before and would certainly know again.

But, on that morning, I held eventual reality at bay; I would not let it intrude into my world, nor into Reyna’s; I had promised her this day and all that went with it and I meant for her to have it. Perhaps in some distant time she could remember it, feel the smooth softness of silk against her skin, hear the music and the laughter, blink at the flashing lights, be uncompromisingly beautiful again, young and free.

Perhaps I should go back to the beginning. I came to Malaysia to oversee the building of the new American Embassy in Kuala Lumpur, a beautiful concept that had existed in plans for nearly ten years but was finally in full scale construction. The chief architect arranged for me to rent a small bungalow not far from the site. We lovingly referred to the new building as ‘The Pink Palace’, and, in truth, it was a beautiful rendition of Malayan society and architecture, with sprawling grounds, arched entries and hints of minarets. I was recently estranged from my wife because she just did not want to spend another year in another foreign country, no matter how beautiful it was.

I had a lot of free time, especially in the evenings. I like music and I hated Malaysian TV. I didn’t understand the language and there was not enough sex and violence to make it interesting enough to just turn down the volume and watch the video, so I became a regular at the many hotel lounges that featured live entertainment groups. I was such a regular at one hotel, the Equatorial, that I was on a first name basis with a quartet of Filipino musicians who called themselves ‘Los Pinchos’. I have no idea what the name meant, but they had a large and loyal following in the city. Every night they would do alternating acts between the lobby lounge and the formal dining room; they were the featured group. There was also a back-up group. Originally that was a duo of Malays that played piano and harp.

We started bumming around together, the Pincho’s and I. When they would finish their last set, around midnight, we would head out to the food stall fair and eat like lumberjacks and drink like crazy people. On Sunday mornings they would drag me along to the big Catholic Church for 11 o’clock mass and they would mix and mingle with all the other Filipinos in the city. It was more a social gathering than a religious rite and it generally resulted in us going somewhere to visit someone for the afternoon. Eventually the guitars would come out and the whole thing would turn into a large bash. I loved it.

A few weeks later, the Malayan group was discontinued and they brought in a new singer. She was Filipina and she was accompanied by a guitarist and a piano player but the group was only called by her name; Reyna.
How can I tell you about Reyna? What if, when I say she was beautiful, your mind comes up with an entirely different set of appearance values? If I say she was accomplished and extrovert, do we mean the same things? But she was all those things. I can tell you she had a voice that covered a range that was truly extraordinary, a voice that had subtle moods and tones to it that she could amplify at will. I can tell you she had a complexion that was as smooth as damp silk and nearly the color of overly creamed coffee. Her eyes were black as night and sparkled in the beam of the spotlight where she spent so much of her life. And if I said that she was the most exciting, sensuous creature I had ever known, would that convey any meaning?

I could also tell you that, between and below her small, firm breasts there were three tiny ex.’s cut into her skin. What they meant and how they got there, I have no idea and she never volunteered an explanation. The things we knew about each other were discovered, not admitted.

Reyna’s accompanists were very much into each other and didn’t seem to require much outside stimulation. Consequently, she started joining the Pincho’s and me on our nightly forays into the inter-city. She didn’t eat as much, nor drink as much, but she held her own. She had an infectious laugh that she used often. She was neither a prude nor a tramp, but she always displayed class, an indefinable quality that set her apart from her jeans and tennis shoe appearance, off stage. To say that I was attracted to her would be totally misleading, it went way beyond that.

About the fourth of fifth time she came along with us, after we had eaten corn soup and soft bread, drank four or five beers each, she motioned for me to follow her away from the table. We went to the outside alley, where cars and taxis waited patiently for their late night diners to return. “I need a lover,” she said simply. “Are you interested?”

I nearly laughed, but something told me to not allow that to happen regardless of what I had to do to suppress it. For a second, any rational way of answering her escaped me, although when I thought about it later there were hundreds of ways I might have handled it better than I did. “Of course I am,” I blundered.

“Good,” she smiled, “I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll go home with you, if that’s okay.”

At first it was almost totally physical. Everything was thunderous and short and left us breathless and limp. I was in awe of her power and possibly a little afraid of her indifference, but blissfully content. Everything that was remotely feminine she was, except for that tiny spot of tenderness that she kept hidden from me.

We were always together. I learned that was part of my role; to be the one with her, to be the outward sign that she was occupied. It helped to keep the others away, and that is what she wanted and needed. But somewhere, somehow, that began to change.

Tuesdays were her ‘make-up’ day, when she would have her hair done and get her nails manicured. She started that day early and she usually finished about noon. I was honestly shocked when she showed up at the building site on one of those Tuesdays with a bag of McDonald’s hamburgers and two chocolate milk shakes. We sat in the shade of a cement mixer and had lunch while dozens of workmen walked by and basked in the temporary beauty she brought to our cluttered, muddy world.

Then, little by little, other things changed too. Normally when we walked together she stayed a half step ahead of me. At first it was only when we were among friends, but later it became a constant. She hung onto my left arm, tightly, with both hands often. We began missing midnight eating sessions with the Pinchos, Reyna saying she was tired and just wanted to go home. Then she began asking me for correct pronunciations of some English words as she went through thick notebooks that contained the lyrics to hundreds of songs. I knew every number in her repertoire before long and if she decided to change numbers in a set, she always asked me for my opinion. Lying on the sofa, bare feet and her hair in rollers, she would practice lyrics for hours on end. And I watched and listened, rapt in her simple loveliness.

The Pincho’s were always the headliner group; there was no question of that. They were singularly talented, handsome and performed with a great presence, either on the small stage of the lobby bar or strolling in the main dining room. Rick, their lead guitarist was a musical marvel, although he never learned to read music. He was just old enough that a few grey hairs were starting to bunch up at his temples and he had a look about him that drove women, especially middle-aged, neglected, and usually wealthy women to do things they would normally not do.

Eddie, the base player, also had a wandering eye, but never the magnetism Rick had. But, the two of them, along with Manolo, the rhythm guitarist and Chico, the vocalist, formed a solid foundation of talent that allowed them to perform at a world class level. I began buying tapes of classical guitar music and some of the legends of rock guitar and giving them to Rick. Those Sunday gatherings I told you about became a test bed of new music for him. You would see him in a corner, huddled around a boom box listening carefully, and then, he would play, measure by measure, what he had heard. Eventually, Eddie would join him and in the course of half an hour or so they could come up with an arrangement of just about anything they wanted.

Reyna began to let loose of me at these kinds of functions. She would go off with the other women and talk about babies, or whatever it was they talked about, always in Tagalog. I don’t mean that she deserted me, but for some reason she no longer felt exposed or vulnerable, I guess. Once or twice in the course of an afternoon she would come by, touch my arm, and be gone again. When it was time to go home, she would take my hand and off we would go.

Making love became a long and leisurely thing, devoid of the urgent, seismic tremors that had marked our beginning. Surprisingly enough, it didn’t happen all that often because our schedules were just so different. I was usually off to work by 8AM and seldom home by 5PM. When I came home she would be gone. She would prepare for her shows, six nights a week, by going through about an hour of make up, costume layouts, music set-ups, etc. After that they would rehearse for an hour and be ready for his first show in the dining room at 7PM. She did one ninety minute show every night, then a 45 minute show in the lobby, have a short break for dinner and then she would do the warm up half hour for the Pinchos just before eleven.

I would come home, have something to eat, sit down and relax for a while and then shower, shave and dress and get to the hotel in time to see her last set, and then we usually stayed for the Pincho’s show and she would drink an Irish coffee. It looked glamorous, but it was hard work for both of us.

Malaysia was booming. I couldn’t even begin to tell you about all the major construction going on in KL. Among other things, they were building the world’s tallest buildings (at the time), the Petronis Towers. The city was chock full of well paid construction people and they required cheap hotel rooms, hearty meals and hour upon hour of entertainment. It was almost inevitable that a movie industry would sprout amid all that opportunity.

Nearly every day would bring some invitation to some event or other into my mail basket, located in a gutted out mobile home and set up on blocks inside the compound. Normally, I’d look at them and toss them into the waste basket, or if they seemed to be something really worth while I’d give them away to one of the various foremen on the site. But one came, one day, that was just a little too unusual to pass up, and it was addressed to me personally. It was for a movie premiere that would be held at the Selangor Theater, complete with red carpet, stars, television and throngs of adoring fans. It was for a Friday night, two weeks from then. I slipped the invitation into my desk drawer and dismissed it from my mind.

A night or two later, I picked up Reyna after her last set and she just wanted to go home. When we got back to the bungalow, I fixed her a cold chicken sandwich while she flopped on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “The General Manager of the hotel received an invitation to the movie premier today,” she announced.

I bought her the sandwich on a tray, along with a big glass of orange juice and ice, her favorite drink. “Well,” I said, rather scornfully, “I received my invitation two days ago, so la de dah.”

“You’re joking,” she said, astonished.

“Seriously,” I said. “Engraved with my name, the whole bit.”

“And we’re going, of course?” she gasped.

“I haven’t replied,” I said, sort of dejectedly. “I just assumed you would have to work, so I threw it in my desk drawer. Would you really want to go?”

She was off the sofa like a shot. “Oh God, yes,” she nearly screamed. “It will be the most glamorous thing in the city for years to come. The President will be there, perhaps even the Sultan of Selangor too. It will be fantastic.”

“What about work?” I objected.

“I’ll have to hire that Malaysian team, I suppose,” she said. You could almost see the wheels in her pretty head turning. “I don’t think that should be a problem, unless they are already booked somewhere. I’ll call them tomorrow.” She had forgotten all about the chicken sandwich, but she was drinking the orange juice in great gulps. “What on earth can I wear?” She was imagining at full tilt now. “You’ll have to rent a tuxedo; you need to do that right away, there will be a big demand.”

I could see that she was totally engrossed in this project; there would be no turning back now. “I can’t wear any of my costumes, everyone has seen those too many times. I have to have something new and original.”
I sat down on the sofa and pulled her down alongside me. I had never seen her so excited about anything before. “Okay,” I said, very maturely, “here’s the deal. You eat your sandwich and tomorrow you can find a dressmaker and I’ll pick up the tab for the ensemble. How’s that?”

She took a bite of the sandwich. “I want you to do it,” she said, very coldly. “I’ll have Minh, the costume woman from the hotel do the dressmaking, but I want you to pick it out; color, design, everything.”

“Oh hon,” I hesitated, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. What do I know about fashion and materials, things like that? You should have what you want, not what I want.”

She looked at me in a way that, for some odd reason, nearly broke my heart. “But you know me,” she said simply, “better than anyone else, maybe better than I know myself.”

The next afternoon, one I had to take off from work, she introduced me to Minh. Minh was mixed Chinese Malay, apparently attuned to both worlds. “Just remember, I don’t like black,” she laughed as she left us alone.

“Is that true?” I asked Minh after Reyna had gone.

“Yes,” Minh chuckled, “she won’t wear it. It’s a shame too, she would really look good in black and it has so many possibilities.

“So what else does she look good in?” I wondered aloud. “It seems to me she looks stunning in everything you’ve done for her.”

“White!” Minh laughed, “But we will have to be very careful that it doesn’t look like a Bridal dress. We can do that with accessories though. You’ll be in a formal tuxedo, I assume?”

“If I can find one,” I laughed.

“I’ll take care of that too,” Minh winked. “Stand up, let me get some measurements.”

“I’m a 42 long, right off the rack,” I announced.

“We’ll see about that,” Minh corrected me.

We looked through a stack of books with pictures of formal attire, gowns, tuxedos, dinner jackets, covering just about every aspect of dressing for the special occasion. Nothing seemed quite right; I couldn’t see Reyna in any of those pictures. As far as I was concerned, a tux is a tux, I could care less, but I wanted Reyna to be spectacular and, in a way, I was a little miffed at her for dropping the responsibility in my lap. I was getting towards my wits end and ready to give up when Minh sensed my frustration. She patted my hand and got up and walked to her cluttered desk, opened a lower drawer and took out a small stack of photographs. She shuffled through them and finally selected three and brought them to where we had been seated. “These are my own creations,” she said, quietly. “Strictly for royalty; but for Reyna, I’ll make an exception.”

I looked at the top photograph. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Reyna was like a kid waiting for Christmas. Every day she would check on the progress of her dress and every two or three days Minh would allow her to try it on and do a tuck here or there. She bought three necklaces before she finally settled on something that could rival her eyes; and then there were earrings, a bracelet, etc., etc., etc.

There is so little that I’ll ever forget about that day that I could live it again for you minute by minute, but most of it wouldn’t make sense to you. Reyna was still asleep when I got up late; I had no intention of even trying to go to work and told everyone to just keep things moving and hold all emergencies until at least Saturday. I went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, popped a couple pieces of bread into the toaster and sat at the table and read an old newspaper. It was already too warm outside, but typical of Malaysia. It would get progressively hotter as the day wore on, then in the afternoon the storm clouds would gather, there would be a torrential rain and then begin a gradual cool down towards evening.

My schedule was remarkably uncluttered for the day; I probably could have gone in to work except for the fact that once on site I wouldn’t be able to extract myself for several hours. It was best just to stay away.
I had picked up the tux the day before, paid one of the guards at the compound to spit-shine my black shoes and I’d practiced tying a bow tie enough times so that I could make it come out looking fairly professional. All I had to do was to shower, shave and make arrangements for a taxi to pick me up at the house, go to the hotel where Reyna would dress under Minh’s watchful, critical eye, and we would go from there to the theater.

I woke Reyna up about 10:30 and she went into an immediate dither stage. She took me through the routine of the day at least a half dozen times, each time adding something she had left out of the previous version. By noon she seemed confident I understood everything I supposedly needed to know and she calmed down enough to stop running from one end of the house to the other, at least. She asked me to call for a taxi, and I did. When it showed up at the front gate and honked, she flopped down on my lap and put her arms around me and kissed me, very tenderly. She looked deep into my eyes and started to say something. “I……..I….” The taxi honked again, and she ran out the door.

The traffic was horrible. I thought we might be a bit more than fashionably late if we didn’t start making some reasonable progress soon. We had about ten minutes when we pulled up into the reception lane of the Equatorial. Inside the lobby I could see several small groups milling around, apparently waiting for their own taxis or limos. I told the driver to just wait; I’d go in and fetch Reyna.

It was a good thing that Rick and Eddie had formed a sort of barricade around Reyna, people were crowding up next to her, she looked that lovely. Minh’s oyster white dress seemed to glow, and Reyna’s glow put it to shame. I had never seen her with her hair done anyway except long and flowing, but somehow they had combed it tightly to her head and to the back into a rolling twist. Her neck was as long and graceful as a swan.

When she saw me her eyes filled with tears, I had no way of knowing why, but I guessed it was because she was happy or excited. I went for the handkerchief in my pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “We can’t have you ruining your make up before we even start,” I whispered to her. “You look absolutely beautiful.” She blinked out the remainder of the tears and caught them in the hankie.

“I’ll be strong,” she whispered back. I thought it was a strange remark, but we didn’t have time to think about it then.

Huge spotlights danced across the sky in swinging arcs, television personalities poised in little groups ready to descend on the next celebrity couple to walk down the red carpet, flashbulbs exploded; it was really quite a sight that awaited us at the theater. I stepped out of the cab and held the door for Reyna; she stooped a little and took my arm as she exited. As I reached in for her, she put up her hand up and tussled my hair. “I want you to look they way I like you,” she giggled, “Not the way they think you should.””

An audible “ooooohhh” greeted her, followed a few seconds later by a smattering of applause as some of the crowd recognized her. I handed my invitation to a bellman wearing a uniform that would have put any admiral to shame and he quickly disappeared towards an announcer’s booth.

Reyna beamed as we walked towards the entrance, waving daintily at friendly faces in the throng. It was my name on the invitation, but under my name I had written ‘accompanying Ms. Reyna De Santos’. As we reached the red velvet ropes I heard the announcer blare out, “From the Lobby Lounge of the Equatorial Hotel, please welcome,” and he paused, “Reyna.” I chuckled under my breath.

We made small talk with several people in the lobby, watched as the President and his wife were seated and then we found our own seats and waited for the lights to dim. Reyna poked me in the ribs and pointed towards the balcony box. “The Sultan,” she said, softly.

When the movie finished, all the actors, directors, producers and just about anyone else who had anything to do with it, were brought up to the stage with endless rounds of applause, silly three minute speeches and expressions of thanks to their mothers, fathers and each other. My hands were tired of clapping. When we finally left the theater, the crowds were gone, the spotlights extinguished, the television crews vanished and people walked quickly towards parking lots or queued up on the curb to flag a taxi. We ended up in a smoking old Datsun with lumpy seats and one headlight, but it was the next one in line. “Home?” I asked Reyna.

“No, back to the hotel,” she smiled.

The lobby bar was jammed to the limits, but the entertainment manager saw us when we walked in and had a table set next to the short stage where the Pincho’s were doing their last set. I ordered Irish coffees for both of us and we tried to sit back and look inconspicuous, but it didn’t work well.

“We have a special treat for you tonight,” Rick spoke into the wireless microphone, “direct from her appearance at the movie premier earlier this evening, our own, Reyna.”

She arose, smiling, and took the short step up onto the stage, waving to the room.

“It was so exciting,” she gushed. “Just everyone was there. Oh, such beautiful dresses and so many celebrities.” She worked the crowd, making little jokes about the champagne tickling her nose, the fat old men and their lovely nieces, she was in her element. She chatted along like that for a few minutes, and then, as I had seen her do a hundred times, she took the excitement level back down, slowly and subtly. Rick and Eddie seemed to be playing random notes, but before long they took on a pattern, although if it was an introduction, it was not one I had heard before. “Can I do one song for you?” she asked the crowd. They clapped quietly but sincerely. “For all of you then, and to someone special to me, this is an old Elvis Presley song; I hope it has meaning for you, because it has so much for me.”

I knew the song of course, as soon as she started. It was called, “I’ll remember you” and although it might have been Elvis’ before, she owned it after two bars.

‘I’ll remember you, long after this – endless summer has gone – I’ll be lonely – oh so lonely – living only - to remember you.”

‘I’ll remember too – your voice as soft as the warm summer breeze – your sweet laughter – mornings after, ever after - I’ll remember too”……. and her voice cracked, she caught a sob in her throat and she couldn’t go on. Rick improvised a riff and bridged from the second to the last verse. It gave Reyna time to recover and she finished the song to a tremendous applause.

In the taxi, on the way home, she curled up in the seat and hung desperately to my arm, not saying a word. There was a curled up envelope stuck in the grill of the front gate, obviously some notes they had to leave for me on the day’s events and what I should expect from tomorrow. “Don’t be too long,” Reyna said, “and bring me a glass of juice when you come up.”

There wasn’t anything in the notes that couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, but I made a couple of mental to-do lists in my mind, took off my jacket, tie and cummerbund and laid them across the chair in the sitting room. I fixed Reyna’s juice and went upstairs.

She was in bed, a sheet pulled up a little higher than her waist, and she had undone her hair; she appeared to be sleeping so I quietly went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth and finished undressing. I slipped silently into bed but left a dim night light burning. In a few moments, Reyna crawled over, put her hand and arm around my waist and held tight and put her head on my chest. We didn’t move, there didn’t seem to be any reason to. “Stay awake,” she said, “don’t go to sleep until I have. Just hold me.”

I didn’t go to sleep; not for a long time anyway. Long enough to know that she had stopped her tears, long enough for the sniffles to pass, long enough for her breathing to slow and become deep, long draughts. I caressed her hair and finally gave in to sleep too.

Little did I know that our world was so terribly close to ending that night. In the three weeks that followed, Reyna mad a desperate effort to appear as though everything was normal and fine, but I knew, somehow, it wasn’t.

It was on a Friday night; I got home late, after 7PM. The job was winding down but there were myriad little things that needed attention. The bungalow seemed quieter somehow, empty, but I shook off the feeling and dug a beer out of the fridge, opened it and sat down at the kitchen table.

Two minutes later, I heard a car stop at the front gate and I looked out. It was Rick, dressed in Mexican costume; he had obviously just come from the hotel. I opened the door for him; he nodded, and then walked to the cabinet where I kept my liquor, in the sitting room. He grabbed a bottle from the top shelf and two bourbon glasses and came back to the kitchen.

“That’s a $40 bottle of Woodford’s twelve-year-old Reserve you just grabbed there, old buddy,” I chuckled, “I was saving that in case the ambassador ever came over for a drink.”

“Well, I got a news flash for you,” Rick smiled, “he isn’t coming, and even if he did he doesn’t care a monkey’s ass about you. I, on the other hand, love you like a brother.” He twisted the top off, pulled the cork and poured each of us a full glass. “To better days,” he said, lifting his glass.

“What’s this all about?” I said, feeling a growing knot in the pit of my stomach.

Rick’s face was as stern as stone, yet it was all there to read.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” I heard myself saying.

Rick nodded. “Left this morning.”

“To where?” I was starting to shake.

“Does it make any difference?” Rick replied.

“It does to me,” I pleaded.

“Yeah,” Rick breathed, “I figured it would.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “She’s on her way to Dubai,” he said. “She’s going to be a headliner; possibly pick up a recording contract; this could be a very big deal for her.”

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t do anything. “Why didn’t she tell me?” I wondered.

“Why?” Rick scowled, “So you could be just as miserable for the last three weeks as she has been? You are missing the big picture here, my brother; she cared about you, cared enough to protect your feelings if she could. It is the one last thing she could do for you.”

I took a drink of the whiskey, about half of it, in fact. I didn’t know what to say.

“You know something?” Rick said. I shrugged. “When we are up there on that stage or walking around with a mike in our hand, it has nothing to do with the music. It’s all about the personality. We sign for people who don’t know the difference between a B-Flat and a golf-cart. We’re the ‘special of the day’, and we’re for sale. You can buy us a drink and get a hand shake and a pat on the back, or you can go for the big kill, try to get the whole ball of wax. And we can’t say no; at least not totally. Why? Because you have to love us, or we fail. We try to stay away from it as much as we can, but you can’t avoid it all. We get and use props, things that put a fence up between them and us, and sometimes it works. Sometimes it works too well.”

“How long has she known she was leaving?”

“She got the telegram the same day as the movie premier.”

That made sense, at least, but I still couldn’t get my head around it all. “Good God, Rick,” I said, helplessly, “What am I going to do now?”

“Well, that parts easy,” he smiled again, “you’re going to turn drawings on blue paper into magnificent buildings, because that’s what you do better than anybody else. I’m going to play the guitar, make love to desperate old housewives and try to stay sane long enough to get the point where I can die in peace. Reyna is going to do what she has to do, just like everyone else.”

Rick drained his glass and then refilled it, and mine too. “I’ve known Reyna for a long time, my friend, but I’ve never known her like she’s been since she found you. She became the woman she always wanted to be with you, at least for a short time. I don’t know if you realize how precious that was to her. She gave back in the only way she knew how, to let you see who she was, and the freedom to be what she is. I’d say you got the best of the bargain.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I wondered.

“Manolo can handle it,” Rick smiled, “he’s getting strong enough to lead in any situation. I’ll probably lose him one of these days. If we can stay upright for a few more hours, they’ll be here. We won’t leave you alone, at least not tonight.”

“I don’t know how to get over this,” I admitted. “Just try to forget? Is that what I’m supposed to do?”

“Well,” Rick thought for a moment, “You could do that; it might take a long time, but you could probably forget her. I wouldn’t though,” he added quickly, “because if you forget the hurt and pain, you’re going to have to give up the good parts too, and I’d think she means too much to you to allow for that. She’s not going to forget, I’ll tell you that, for sure.”

“What makes you so sure,” I demanded.

“She already told you that,” Rick said, firmly. “We get requests every day, every set, from people who like the way a song sounds, or a melody, or a beat. Except for Happy Birthday, they usually don’t mean much. But Reyna requested to do that song that night, especially for you; not for us to do it, but she wanted to do it. And, what did it say?”

“I’ll remember you,” I said the words, but I nearly couldn’t get them out, they hurt that badly.

“So, it’s your choice,” Rick chuckled. “You can forget or you can remember. Pick one.”

“I’ll remember too.” I said


End

The Gnostic Delegation - A Short Story

The Gnostic Delegation
A Short Story by
Tony Killinger


I remember how the three of us sat in a booth of an old fashioned diner in Warrenton Virginia and divided up the world that day in 1990. It seemed to us that news, like any other commodity, had a shelf life, and if you were going to sell that commodity, it had best be fresh. The handwriting was on the wall as far as the big wire services were concerned, and we didn’t think the sprouting cable networks could afford to keep a news bureau in every major capital for long. Nobody had that many resources.

You remember back to 1990, don’t you? The world was coming apart at the seams. Even to the untrained eye it looked as though we might actually see the end of the USSR; the archenemy of the western, democratic powers. At the same time, the jungle wars of central and South America were beginning to die down, although they would smolder on for a few more years to come.

Besides Europe, the hotspots were in Asia, but as yet they were just a bit warmer than room temperature. If a start-up business, like a news clearing house, was going to make it, they would have to have a reliable roster of customers; customers who wanted the coverage but didn’t have the money to keep their own reporters on site waiting for something to happen.

In the U.S., newspapers were dying off at an alarming rate, and that wasn’t entirely bad, from our prospective. Lingering deaths were preceded by years of belt tightening and budget constraints. But, unlike the U.S., countries all over the world still had a vast selection of news magazines, and they were our bread and butter, then and now, twenty plus years later.

Both my partners, Jack Pendergrass and David Jenks, thought I should be the one to take New York and the Americas. I held out for Asia, and won; mostly because I had the most money invested and I didn’t want to live in New York or Berlin where our other office would be located. They actually ended up flipping a coin and David called heads and took Berlin. Jack Pendergrass, in the ensuing years, has gone through three marriages, several hundred thousand dollars, and knows somebody of authority on any subject in just about every country on the face of the earth. Dave passed on in 1996 and his son moved into his chair without losing a beat. We’ve done okay.

Manila, in the Philippines, was one of the few capital cities in Asia where you can go from downtown to the airport in twenty minutes. It is also fairly inexpensive to rent a nice two bedroom apartment, get domestic help, a decent haircut and has one of the best beers in the world. That might seem like thin consideration, but it works for me. I’m comfortable in Asia and have been ever since I left Texas, a long time ago.

My office is in a section of town called Makati. I mention that only because it was a boom town when I leased the place and has never stopped booming. They moved most of the girly bars from downtown to Makati during one of their regularly scheduled city clean-ups. It makes for a lot of foot traffic on the streets after dark and keeps the restaurants full until all hours of the night, but it doesn’t bother me. Being single, I appreciate the beauty and form of those terribly pretty girls dancing their hearts out over the rim of my San Miguel glass from time to time.

Getting back to the office; forgive me; I strayed from my train of thought. My secretary, Nita, takes great pride in posting 20 point headlines that we have generated, on the walls of my inner-office. We’ve got some doozies up there. There are war stories, natural disasters, financial crashes, sinking ships, government collapses and coups, but one thing we don’t have is a story that takes everything we know about our civilization and says we might have gotten it all wrong.

About three months ago, Nita came in to my office with a very concerned look on her otherwise angelic face. “You better talk to this guy,” she said, “he isn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“He’s some sort of Military type; he say’s he knows you and he has to talk to you before they kill him.”

“That sounds pretty melodramatic,” I frowned, “better put him through.”

“Mister Mitchell,” the voice on the line said, “you may not remember me; I am Lieutenant Colonel Lee Fong from the Chinese Military attaché to the Philippines. We met at a cocktail party given by the Chief of Police in Makati last year. Do you recall?”

I did a quick search of my memory banks and the best I could come up with was a tall, straight, somewhat inscrutable military officer who was accompanied by cleverly disguised beautiful woman in a woolen Mao suit. I remembered thinking how hot it must have been for her. “Why yes, Colonel, I do,” I lied.

“Mister Mitchell, it is a matter of absolute life and death that I meet with you and talk in a private place; I believe I have been targeted for death within the next 24 hours.”

“My office is at your disposal, Colonel,” I offered.

“Unacceptable,” Fong objected. “Can you meet me at a bar on Ermita Street called The Kitten Club as soon as you can?”

“Can you tell me what this pertains to, Colonel?” I asked, not hopeful I’d get a reasonable answer.

“I will tell you what I know when I see you, but I am not sure what it all means yet.”

He didn’t wait for my answer and the phone line went silent. “Boy, that’s a strange one,” I said to Nita, who was still standing there. “I’ve got to meet this guy at a stripper club in Ermita, chop chop. While I’m gone, dig up anything you can on a Lieutenant Colonel Lee Fong of the Chinese Military Attaché will you?”

The Ermita area has seen better days; in fact it had a long running series of glory days. Even Bangkok, with its renowned Phat Pong carnival didn’t hold a candle to Manila’s bawdy boulevard. The clientele has gone through subtle changes, but the main product has remained remarkably constant; young, exotic, erotic women and a spattering of same-sex friendship clubs.

Just about every election cycle brings out the reformers who, on the surface, pledge to clean up Ermita, but it never really happens. Some of the older places get moved to a new neighborhood, like Makati, and some just stay where they are at, under new management. The truth lies in the fact that those activities, indigestible as they may seem, provide the source for a lot of the foreign currency that makes its way into and out of the Philippines.

I was fairly certain, even from my vantage point across the street; the Kitten Club would not survive the next round of moral indignation and renewal. Stuffed between two larger bars that could boast of bubbling neon lights and outside billboards, it looked dark and unwelcoming.

Friday afternoons are generally a beehive of activity with San Miguel drivers delivering case upon case of beer and soft drinks to be chilled in refrigerated storage rooms or dumped unceremoniously into metal boxes and covered with ice, the source of which you probably would be better not to know. I could detect no activity whatsoever at the Kitten Club.

I crossed the street, angling between two taxis and an ice truck and pushed open the front door. It is always hard to describe to someone who has never been in a place like that what smells await you. It’s sort of like a horse stable where a lot of people smoke soggy cigarettes and throw up in toilets that don’t flush. There was the obligatory barkeep standing in front of a mirrored wall that had a narrow walkway, (apparently there would be dancing girls on that stage at some unspecified time in the future), and a Formica sit down bar. On the other side of the room there were a few tables; one of them occupied by a rather tall Chinese looking gentleman. My memory banks had been right after all; it was the same guy I had met before.

“Colonel Lee Fong?” I ventured.

“Mister Mitchell,” he nodded. “Please have a seat. I haven’t much time and I have a great deal to tell you.”

While I sat, Fong unfolded a single sheet of paper and slid it across the sticky table towards me. In the dim light of the barroom I could barely make out what seemed to be a list of countries, each with what appeared to be a descriptor behind it. The first entry was, USA, followed by the note, “sitting Supreme Court Justice”. The second entry was also the USA, this time the descriptor was “Cardinal”. All in all, there were twelve entries, each one listed with the notation of Cardinal, Archbishop or Bishop. My cursory reading of the list indicated the countries were from every continent, most of them major powers. There was a one-line note at the bottom of the page, “one or more will be female.”

“Interesting,” I remarked, “what does it mean?”

“I believe what it is,” the colonel began, “is the make up of what is being called “The Gnostic Delegation.” This group of people will meet with the Pope in Rome and open negotiations on the reformation of the Catholic Church. If their proposals are rejected outright they are supposedly prepared to announce their secession from the church and the establishment of their own branch of Catholicism.”

I read over the list again. “I see; but how and why did you happen to come into possession of this document?” I questioned.

“Because a junior officer and friend of mine has been ordered to head up a commando group prepared to kill as many people on the list as possible. He gave it to me out of sheer desperation.”

“So there are names that go along with these entries?

“Yes, of course,” Fong answered. “I do not know those names, but I will continue my attempt to learn them and pass them on to you, if I am able.”

“Colonel,” I began, solemnly, “doesn’t this strike you as a bit preposterous? I don’t know how well you keep track of the American movie industry or the literary world, but this supposed plot fits right into a very popular trend. It might be a very elaborate publicity stunt. Besides,” I scowled, “why would the Chinese government want to get involved in anything so decidedly western?”

“I am a military man, Mister Mitchell,” Fong smiled, “I try to stay as far from the political world as possible. The only thing I can tell you is that my young friend will be leaving within the next 24 to 48 hours to return to China and take command of a very special unit of people who are trained exclusively to do these kinds of things. As to the reason, I cannot say. My guess would be that it is not in the interest of my country to see the Christian world put into a state of turmoil at this particular time.”

I smiled back at him, but my smile was markedly weaker than his had been. “Colonel, both of us know very well that if you were not political, right up to your eyebrows, you wouldn’t be here in Manila, so let’s not wake that sleeping dog right now.” I signaled to the bartender, held up two fingers and hollered at him, “two San Miguel’s.” He nodded and I returned my attention to Fong. “Why do you think your life is in danger?”

“I can’t say for certain,” Fong replied. “I saw my friend having a heated discussion with a security type and I got the impression he learned that I had seen the list. My friend seemed very distraught. A little later, I was returning to my office and discovered that my desk and files had been rifled and I could see from the window of the building that my car was being watched.”

When the beers arrived we both took a long drink. I wasn’t sure which of my hundreds of questions I wanted answered the most, so I just started from the top of the list. “Do you understand the reference to this group of people as Gnostic?”

“Only in so far as I’ve been able to find on the internet,” Fong admitted. “The Gnostics were a group of early Christians who had some different views on the divinity of Jesus than the majority of believers. Eventually they nearly died out, but apparently there is still a faction of them around. If this list is to be believed, they have powerful allies.”

My next question was the one I really dreaded. “What would you have me do with this information, Colonel Fong? There is nothing here that I can claim is news, nothing that I can put out to my subscribers; it’s just a very intriguing rumor.”

“I understand,” Fong said, “but you can at least start to check it out, you know who to ask. In the mean time I will continue to see what I can learn and I will contact you Monday morning and we will decide at that time if further action is warranted.”

We agreed, drank the rest of our beer and I left the colonel setting in the Kitten Club and caught a taxi back to the office. It was just about 6PM when I finished writing up an email for Jack Pendergrass with all the particulars and a personal request to see if he could locate an expert on Gnostics in my part of the world and to let me know as soon as he found anything. Nita gave me what she found out about Lee Fong, which turned out to be pretty standard bio material put out by the attaché group.

Manila is exactly half way around the world from New York, so I knew that Jack wouldn’t even be into work for a few hours. I decided to have dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant and go home and watch CNN. The phone rang at just after 9PM.

“How do you manage to get yourself involved in such bizarre situations?” Jack was laughing, but not all of him was amused, you could detect that very easily.

“Just lucky, I guess. Any of what I told you ring any bells on your end of the world?”

“Not even a tinkle,” Jack admitted. “But, it sounds like you are in at the onset, so maybe we’ll pay close attention from here on in and see if there is anything we missed. What is your reading of this Colonel Fong?”

“He’s genuinely frightened,” I said. “Definitely not a position he is used to; normally he’s the guy that does the frightening.” I leaned forward from my lounging position on the sofa and slid a steno pad and pencil closer, anticipating having to write a few things down. “Have you found me a Gnostic expert?”

“Of course,” Jack laughed, “that’s why I get 33% of the profits from this dubious enterprise of ours. You might have to take a short ride on an airplane, but you can put it on your expense report. Ready to write?”

“Fire when in range,” I chuckled. “And the main reason you get 33% of the profits is because you couldn’t make your alimony payments on any thing less.”

“That might be true; however, I’m sorry to have to put you in the presence of overwhelming intellect, this woman is going to have you for lunch, but there’s no sense in messing around with second best. McCall, Patricia A., doctor, doctor, doctor; World Religions, Early Christian History and Political Science. There are about 20 schools of higher education in Cebu; she is listed as a chair or in an advisory position for nearly all of them, including the University of the Philippines, Cebu College and the University of the Philippines, Visayas. She got her first PhD at the age of 20. Married to and estranged from Herbert McCall, presently teaching here in New York at Columbia. She is 54 years old, wealthy in her own right, authors books and papers at an alarming rate and gives a lot of money away to women’s and environmental groups. And,” Jack continued, “because I am always looking out for your best interests, I called a friend who called a friend and Doctor McCall just happens to have a few hours free tomorrow afternoon and she would like you to let her know if you can make it to Cebu on such short notice.”

“I’m wondering what you dangled in front of her agree to this interview?” I was not amazed though, Jack could come up with the impossible on a regular basis. “How much does she know, and more importantly, what has she been led to suspect?”

“Well, knowing what I know of her, from various sources, I told my contacts to mention two things to her; Rome and reformation. Apparently that was enough.”

It would probably have been within the limits of acceptability to go ahead and call Doctor McCall, but I decided not to; I’d wait until morning. If her interest was peaked, I’d let her think about it for a few hours. I needed some time to bone-up on the subject enough to be able to ask intelligent questions.

At 3:3o AM, the steno pad contained about 3 pages of two and three word notes, all of them completely nonsensical. There were dates and places, terms I was vaguely familiar with and some so disconnected I had to Google them to learn their meaning. However, contained within those notes was the confirmation number of a reservation I’d made on the 10:40AM flight to Cebu, another reservation for a room at the San Moritz hotel, the good Doctor’s telephone number and her address. I set the alarm clock on my nightstand and, just to make sure, phoned down to the guard at the security desk in the lobby to call me at eight in the morning. I threw some things into an overnight shoulder bag and dragged myself off to bed.

I was awake before the alarm went off or the security guard called. Gloria, my maid, cook, laundress and fashion consultant made sure I was up and had one cup of coffee before I phoned Cebu. I spoke to a secretary who informed me, very politely, that Doctor McCall would be happy to meet with me and was already aware that I might be coming. Gloria told me to wear a good quality Barong and nice slacks and forego my usual penchant for jeans, cowboy boots and a photographer’s vest, and of course I always heeded her advice.

It was just after noon when I walked across the tarmac from the plane ramp to the reception lounge. The sky was threatening and I was grateful that we’d been able to fly around the thunderstorm and not be delayed. The dark sky pushed the heat and humidity right down to ground level and I was probably facing at least a 30 minute ride in a non-air-conditioned taxi and would arrive at my destination just in time to step out into a torrential downpour. I reminded myself how lucky I was to be an independent reporter, working a potential headline busting story in such an exotic setting; the stuff of B movies and paperback novels. I almost laughed.

The felt-marker sign was bouncing up and down wildly, starting from below the shoulders of the waiting throng and topping out about eye level with most of the people in the crowd. Still, I was able to read “Mitchell” on one of its yo-yo up cycles and I made my way towards that end of the line. The sign holder was a middle aged fellow about 4’6” tall, nicely dressed and almost completely swallowed up by his fellow greeters. I tapped him on the shoulder and smiled. He beamed at me, obviously glad that I’d caught his frantic signal.

“Mister Mitchell?” he said, sounding more factual than questioning, “If you will come with me I’ll take you to the car. Is this all of your luggage?”

“I’m all set,” I said, still smiling. “It was very good of the Doctor to send someone for me, I hadn’t expected it.”

“She’s waiting for you in the car,” he beamed. “We thought perhaps you would be delayed by the weather. I am Cruz; welcome to Cebu.”

Cruz picked his way through the crowd and out the covered walkway towards a gated parking lot. When we came abreast of a new, white Toyota Corolla he popped the trunk with his key fob. “Would you like to put your bag in the trunk?”

I shook my head. “I’ll just keep it with me,” I said. “It is not heavy.” The passenger side rear door opened as Cruz reclosed the trunk lid. I was not fully prepared for the woman who stepped out, smiling and extending her hand towards me.

“Mister Mitchell?” Her’s was an honest question, or at least intoned like one. “Pattie McCall,” she stated flatly, but still smiling.

“Donald,” I said, trying to sound insisting and friendly at the same time. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. I’ll try not to disrupt your entire weekend.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she assured me, “I’m in sort of an inactive period and the weekend promised nothing anyway. This could be a pleasant diversion.”

“It shouldn’t take too long,” I said, maybe just a couple of hours.”

“Oh?” She said, her lips pouting slightly. “I thought we had some major mystery to solve and I was looking forward to it.”

“Mystery,” I allowed, “whether or not it is major, remains to be seen. I’m not even sure if it can be solved and even then it would be out of our hands. Clarification would be nice though,” I chuckled.

“Well, let’s be on our way towards clarification then,” she laughed. We got into the Toyota and Cruz, propped up on a cute little pillow headed out onto the street.

It was all small talk on the way back to Doctor McCall’s residence, six or seven miles from the airport. I kept thinking, the package and the reality of this person didn’t jibe precisely. She looked, talked and acted like a normal woman, no hint of an intellect that must have been close to phenomenal, yet she was pretty, bordering on beautiful, and she smiled and laughed a lot. She seemed much more interested in learning about my work than telling me about her own.

Pattie’s home was typical upper-class Filipino; marble floors, large open rooms, not well lit but airy and cool. We had been in the house about 30 seconds when the rain hit, ushered in by a crash of thunder and lightning. “In here, Donald,” she said, escorting me towards a room off of the formal living room. “Cruz, bring us a couple of beers in the study, will you?” she called out in the direction of the kitchen.

Inside the study it all came together, precisely. There was a huge mahogany table that appeared to serve as a desk, rack upon rack of leather bound books, a roll-around computer terminal, phones, faxes, files and framed diplomas, degrees, certificates and one three foot oil painting of Gandhi, the Mahatma.

“It has been a while since I’ve been impressed,” I chuckled, “suffice it to say, I am, very.”

“I’m more than just a gorgeous face,” she laughed. “Have a seat and let us proceed, shall we?”

I wasn’t quite sure just how to do that, it seemed that no matter where we started we were jumping in on the middle; never a good place to begin. The best option, I decided, was to present it to Pattie the same cumbersome way it had been given to me. I got out the list from my overnight bad, unfolded it and slid it across the desk to her. She looked at it for a few moments and wrinkled her brow.

“This list,” I began, “they call the Gnostic Delegation.” I proceeded to tell her exactly how I had come to have it, everything I knew about the colonel and everything he had told me. She listened without interruption and I was fairly confident she was absorbing the facts and suppositions the same way I had. What I hadn’t come to grips with, quite yet, was how genuine intelligence works. She was already miles ahead of me.

“There is a key piece missing,” she said, simply.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I insisted.

“Just the same,” Pattie frowned, “there is.” She leaned back in her chair and took a drink of her beer. “Are you Catholic?”

“I was, at one time, I guess,” I admitted, reluctantly. “It stopped making complete sense to me in college, and well, the way I was raised you accepted it all or you rejected it, there wasn’t much middle ground.”

“And still isn’t,” Pattie laughed. “People like me who are supposed to know everything about their field of study get to postulate, that’s what they pay us for. So, allow me to ramble a bit.”

She took another sip of her beer. “Just about everything that you take for granted about Christianity has, at some time, been the subject of heated debate. I don’t care how miniscule the item may be, somebody has fought over it. You can start at the top of the list and talk about the nature of God, or you can get down to the minutia and speak of such things as when to stand and when to kneel in church. We don’t hear much about it because it isn’t a good topic for the Sunday homily; the church is always given to us a model of solidity and constancy. It is neither of those things; never has been and never will be. To challenge that status, you must be willing to face excommunication and expulsion; a heavy, heavy onus.”

“And the Gnostics took that chance?” I guessed.

“The Gnostics were the hippies of early Christendom,” she chuckled. “They were not into organization on a grand scale and it proved to be their downfall. Bear in mind, the Apostles were all illiterate men, with the possible exception of Mark and later, Saul or Paul. They did not speak Greek and if they knew Latin at all it was only enough to order a meal. They were, however, wonderful orators, a gift given them by the Holy Spirit. The growing Christian communities had to hire scribes to record their teachings, unless they were lucky enough to have literate members in their congregations. The scribes could hardly be expected to remember each and every word of those apostolic sermons and the Apostles didn’t have the ability to proof read those manuscripts. Undoubtedly, mistakes were made.”

I found myself wanting to be very still, not even allowing a nod or moving my eyes too much, nothing that would disrupt the smooth, rhythmic flow of her narrative.

“As these preachers moved around in their ministries, the collections of their teachings became a prized possession for the local church. In the months and months when the Apostles were not around, deacons would bring out those sermons and read them to the congregation. Eventually, rites were originated and regimens established as to how and when services were conducted. As one might expect, leaders, most probably from the business community, organized these Christians into group so that resources could be shared and teaching standardized. The Church was starting to have structure. The preachers may have been content to spread the word of God, but the logistics of accomplishing it were left to the laity. “

“I follow you, I think. Don’t go too far too fast though.”

“Feel free to rein me in whenever you think necessary,” she laughed. “Okay, on to the Gnostics. The Gnostics were not all that comfortable with this structure idea; they preferred to let things flow along of their own accord. They also had a problem with dogmatic beliefs that required everyone to think and act alike. Over the years, their favorite preachers were the ones who allowed for the individualist, the free thinkers. Like the rest of Christianity, they treasured those recorded narratives and they shared them with other groups who held similar beliefs. Over the years they came to have many copies of the collections of those people and gave special preference to preachers like Stephen, Thomas, Peter and Mary Magdalene.”

“Oh-oh,” I head myself saying.

Doctor McCall laughed aloud. “You’re keeping up just fine if you recognize Mary Magdalene represents a potential problem. The term Gnostic is from the Greek gnosis; the adjective ‘learned’ or the verb form, ‘to learn’. The trouble was, the Gnostics didn’t learn, or they learned too late. The mainstream Christians had them outflanked by the time some of the issues got to the point that some resolution had to be sought. “
“But I thought the Gnostics were happy with the differences; they just wanted to do things their own way.” My observation sounded weak and shallow, but it was the best I had.

“They were, but the rest of the world wasn’t. The first Ecumenical Council was convened by the Emperor Constantine in the year 325. So, we’ve gone from a few individuals with similar beliefs, to a loose parish type structure, to Bishoprics and right into the ruling class in less than 300 years. The Kings and Emperors have replaced Apostles and preachers. You can see how this put the Gnostics at a definite disadvantage.”

I remember reading about that in my research last night. “That was held in Nicaea, Turkey and published the Nicene Creed?”

“Very good,” Pattie smiled. “I would have bet you spent some time digging before you came,” she laughed. “Anyway, the council met to hammer out the Church’s official position on the divinity of Christ and His relationship with God the Father and the Holy Spirit. It was a grand fight, but lopsided. The Gnostics didn’t offer much to either camp, but they definitely got the message that any views that did not bolster the ideas of a central authority, such as the Church, Royalty, and strict organization, without feminine influence would not get far. The writing was on the wall, so to speak.”

During our discussion the rain had stopped, resumed and stopped again, but I hardly noticed it. What I did notice is that we didn’t seem to be getting any closer to determining if 12 people were actually in mortal danger or not, or even if there really were 12 such people. “So, what is it we are missing?” I said, rather insistently.

“Patience,” Pattie chided me. “We’re closing in on it, whatever it is. Okay, the Gnostics, seeing they were up against some uncompromising hierarchy and possibly even persecution, gradually receded into the underground. One of the first things they did was to stash a lot of their liturgy away in places where it would be safe, perhaps for thousands of years. It turns out it was safe for nearly fifteen hundred years and it wasn’t found until the end of World War II in Egypt.”

“I read about that last night, I was amazed. We’re talking about the Nag Hammadi codices, right?”

“Exactly,” Pattie said, excitedly. “Thirteen codices containing over 50 texts and many of the original gospels of Thomas, Phillip and Mary. All of them were subjected to carbon dating, papyrus and ink testing, language analysis, the whole battery of scientific evaluation, and it turns out many of them are older than the known copies of Matthew, Mark and John.”

“Ah, I think I’m beginning to get the picture,” I said, somewhat triumphantly. “The modern day Gnostics feel they can get another bite at the apple with this new evidence?”
“Almost!” The good doctor was teasing me now. “You remember what happened in 1517?”

“Martin Luther happened,” I laughed.

“Exactly,” Pattie was off and running again. “But, although the Church was split, we ended up with a hundred years of instability in England, Germany, Spain and the known world, the Catholic hierarchy never negotiated with Luther or the Kings on the legitimacy of Luther’s demands, even though they made countless deals and alliances because of them. Why?”

“You’re going to tell me, aren’t you,” I said.

“They were dismissed out of hand because they were only opinions; Luther had no legal precedence. And this is the element we are missing today. Neither do the Gnostics! They have copies of texts that have been at least partially known for centuries and they have always been summarily dismissed before. Why now, all of a sudden does it seem that the Papacy is willing to negotiate?”

If this woman had been a teacher when I went through the University of Texas, I would have learned a whole lot more than I did. Instinctively, I knew what she had been saying, but I was somewhat shocked that it had penetrated my news soaked brain. Even so, I hesitated. “Because they have proof,” I said, very softly.

Doctor McCall settled back in her chair, crossed her hands on her lap and smiled. We both sat in silence for what seemed to be a very long time. This was heavy stuff for a guy like me. “I could drink another beer,” I said. It seemed a good way to break the mood.

“Let me show you around,” Pattie counter suggested. “I have a lovely home and it is seldom that I get to show it off. I think the afternoon rains have moved on; we should be safe.”

I own a cell phone and I even take it with me when I’m going to be out of the office for any significant period of time. There aren’t many people who know the number, and I like to keep it that way. If something is so urgent it can’t wait for me to be at my desk, it’s probably an overestimation. We were walking through a small but manicured garden next to the guest house when the opening notes to the William Tell Overture came tinkling up from the pocket of my Barong. Nita had selected that ring tone, her novel idea of summoning the Lone Ranger. A quick glance revealed that it wasn’t Nita calling; it was an old friend of mine, Captain Manolo Garza of the Manila Metro Police.

“Manny,” I said in my happy smiling voice, “What drags you away from the golf course on an early Saturday evening?”

“Not coincidence, I’m afraid.” Manny’s voice was definitely serious and unsmiling. “Yesterday afternoon I got a call from your secretary wanting to know if I had any pertinent information on a Chinese Military Attaché type named Lee Fong. I didn’t and told her as much. Now I’m standing here in the morgue looking at a rather badly mangled body of that same individual; apparently the victim of a hit and run accident a couple of hours ago on Edsa Boulevard. What’s going on, Mitch?”

His words took a lot of the air out of my lungs and I couldn’t speak for a minute. “I wish I knew, my friend,” was all I could come up with. “I met with the guy yesterday at a bar in Ermita and he indicated he might be in some danger, but I thought he was overreacting to his situation.” I hesitated a few seconds. “Damn, this is very concerning.”

“Yeah, I’d say it was concerning, for sure.” Manny hesitated now. “Maybe you and I had better meet up somewhere and talk this over. I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Not sure a beer would cut it, Manny. At any rate, I’m in Cebu at the moment, but I should be back tomorrow morning. I’ll give you a call the minute I touch down, okay?” We said a couple of other things I don’t remember and then we both hit the little red button.

“Trouble?” Doctor McCall wondered aloud.

“You might say that,” I answered heavily. “Colonel Fong has been killed in a hit and run accident; happened a couple of hours ago.”

“Good heavens,” Pattie gasped. She looked at my face for a long moment, reading something perhaps. “There’s nothing you could have or should have done, Donald, put that idea out of your head immediately.”

“Look, Doctor McCall,” I said rather dejectedly, “I’d better get over to the San Moritz; I’ve got reservations there for tonight and I need to mull this over in my mind a few times. Right now, I have no inkling of an idea where to go with this.”

“You’re going right to my guest house,” she ordered. “I’ll not have you holed up in some dingy hotel, eating rubber chicken at a third-rate restaurant and bouncing any ideas you might come up with off a popcorn ceiling. You are going to do us a couple of rare steaks on the grill, I’ll cut up a nice salad and, if necessary, we’ll knock the snot out of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Got it?”

I found myself laughing in spite of the situation. “You’re the doctor,” I chuckled. “Do you have a degree in psychology too?”
She laughed too. “As a matter of fact, I do, but only undergrad.”

Manny Garza and I met up at an outdoor table of the Pistang Filipino café just after 2PM Sunday afternoon. I laid it all on the line for him; the list, the Colonel, the Gnostics and what little else Pattie and I came up with during a very pleasant evening.

“The murder of Colonel Fong is in my bailiwick,” Manny sighed. “Thanks for the nudge in the right direction, just the same. As for the rest of this stuff, I suppose the best thing would be for me to alert a couple of pertinent intelligence agencies and let them pick it apart and see if there’s anything to it.” He studied me for a second. “Are you planning on running any of it?”

“There’s nothing to run with,” I replied. “Maybe if you come up with a wrecked Chinese vehicle and a driver, but I’d bet you never will.”

“That’s a safe bet,” he smiled. “Want another beer?”

You might be interested to know that Doctor McCall and I have expanded our relationship over the ensuing months. If they keep expanding at the present rate one of us is either going to have to move or buy an airplane. As a matter of fact, it was just last night that we were sitting on the patio of the guest house, grilling steaks and tossing salads when my cell phone rang. It was Jack Pendergrass. He wanted to send me a text that had just come in from Rome.

“Sources inside the Vatican and close to the Holy Father announced late today the Pope would host a group of prominent Catholic Clerics and laity, on a yet undetermined date, for discussions concerning the future direction of the Church. The group is listed on the Vatican’s proposed agenda items as the Gnostic Delegation.”

“Trouble?” Pattie said, looking over my shoulder at the small screen of my cell phone.

“Yes, I’m quite sure it will be,” I said. “But for who? Twelve people, the Church or maybe the entire world? The sad thing is that there isn’t much we can do about it.”

End