A river divided, p.21
A River Divided, page 21
“Both our children are there.” Elva took him by the arm. “But you must be tired. Let’s have something refreshing at this café.”
The café was shaded by a large cypress tree. Couches and mismatched armchairs surrounded scarred timber tables, the long counter fridge displaying baklava and cakes.
After ordering, Loni and Elva explained HaSolelim was once a different place. They had come there when they were young, back in the late ’50s. The kibbutz was dedicated to mutual help and social justice then, but now young people depart in search of affluence. There was sadness in their voices at the lost dream.
Christopher recalled his lecturers in economics going over Marxist theory. At the time, he had thought Marxism was ultimately the only system that made sense. Soon he realized the drive for affluence afflicted even those committed to social justice. Who would turn down a bigger house, a better car?
“What you did here,” he said, “is similar to what Christ and Marx had in mind.”
Perhaps there in the hills, amongst the cypress trees, might still lie the secret of why Nazareth produced a rebel who challenged authority from the Pharisees to the Romans.
They had left the kibbutz and gone for dinner at an Arab restaurant in nearby Nazareth. While he waited for Loni to park the car, Christopher closed his eyes, bringing to mind the features of the face in the Byzantine icon above his bed—arched eyebrows, serene eyes, elongated nose. When he was little and had high fever, the icon came to life. In his delirium, it grew larger than his room, yet somehow it fit inside it.
Now, as Christopher stood surrounded by mountains, he was in the very place where the man in the icon had grown up. Possibly the old olive tree with the huge trunk at the side of the road was a sapling then. With eyes still closed, he wondered what he would say to Him, and what He would say to him, had they met. As a child, in his imagination, he had come up with a body to go with the face in the icon—a man wearing a tunic and sandals, walking briskly, as if on a mission. All he had to do now was to bring the image to the present location with surrounds as they might have been in ancient times. He mentally replaced the asphalt with cobblestones, leaving the olive and cypress trees to stand where they were, just shrinking them to saplings.
Christopher could see that the stones He stepped on as He came toward him spelled out the word “vengeance.” But as He walked over them, they changed position and no longer spelled “vengeance,” but other words that lifted Christopher’s spirit.
“Christopher, are you all right?” asked Elva.
He opened his eyes, realizing his hand was extended as if reaching out to the man who had just vanished from his mind. He looked around to orient himself. “I’m okay,” he answered. The image he had conjured was still vivid, though the surroundings were the same as before.
She took his hand. “Oh, my dear; it’s too soon. You’re still grieving for your mother.”
Over dinner, he participated in conversation on autopilot. It was as though everything was happening at a distance. He barely tasted the food he ate.
When they walked out of the restaurant he hung back and closed his eyes, hoping the image would return. Nothing happened.
His hosts were waiting for him, so he jogged to catch up. Might they know something? There was nothing to lose. “Did my mother … do you know if my mother had any friends in Israel?”
Loni gestured to show empty hands. “Not that we know of.”
They were his only contacts. There were no clues—nothing to hold on to. I am trying too hard. Mum has given the only explanation there is and I have to accept what she said. There is nothing more to this.
At the head of the procession in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, two altar boys were walking backwards, while swinging incense burners that filled the air with a sweet, musky smell.
The fragrance again reminded Christopher of his mother’s funeral. He tried to clear his mind of thoughts of Evelyn, but they returned unbidden. On the one hand, he did not want to forget anything about her, but, on the other, he did not want the memories to be intrusive.
Having returned to Jerusalem, Christopher had squeezed into the church for the Good Friday service. In contrast to other churches, the effigy of Christ was not unnailed from the cross. Instead, a fabric the size of a tablecloth with His image embroidered on it was showered with rose petals. Tenderly held from each corner by priests, it was slowly carried down the eighteen steps from Golgotha to the main part of the church.
When he was little, he had told Evelyn he wanted to watch South Park rather than go to the Good Friday service. Her response, “You have to obey me because I made you.” Later he had realized how important Good Friday was to Evelyn and Michael. On Good Fridays they were both sad. It was the one day of the year he always stayed with them because he felt he was needed. It seemed they lived a contradiction—atheism with the worship of Christ. And for some reason, they clung to him on that day.
Next in the procession came pairs of boys holding lanterns with candles, crosses with candelabras and gold disks symbolizing the sun. The fabric with the image was placed on a marble base over which hung nine ornate lanterns. It was the re-enactment of the anointing of the body by the women. The fabric was then carried to the entrance of the Holy Tomb.
The choir sang hymns that reminded Christopher of music his mother played. Evelyn had taught him the lyrics of her favorite.
Ω γλυκύ μου έαρ, γλυκύτατόν μου τέκνον, που έδυ σου το κάλλος; Oh, my sweet spring, my sweetest child, the sunset of thy beauty I behold.
He had scorned the effusiveness of it, but she had said it was beautiful, especially in Greek. It was a metaphor, she said, and it was the lament of a mother who had two sons. “Well, some claim Mary actually had another son,” he recalled her saying when he asked.
The fabric was interred in the Holy Tomb. An orthodox priest told him it would stay there until light from the tomb was sent to the four corners of the world, just prior to the Resurrection.
Outside the church, people were cupping their palms to shield the flames of their candles, attempting to keep the “holy light” for as long as possible. Candlelight illuminated faces from below, reversing the usual facial shadows. Many candles were extinguished by the wind, to be relit by strangers with an exchange of wishes.
He felt a presence near him and looked back. There was nobody. He turned right around. An old woman approached him. She wore a black scarf and was singing from a pamphlet. Her candle had dripped wax that hooked on the paper cup surrounding it. She reached his candle with hers to relight it. Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of the old olive tree in Nazareth. She looked serene. Perhaps Jesus brings her peace.
Alone once more, he thought of the sacrifice of a life for justice. The world now was preoccupied with business, not benevolence. He used to think he needed to gain financial independence before helping others, but now he was beginning to wonder. I might get the money and lose my soul.
Evelyn had told him the parable of the rich man, the camel and the eye of the needle. He conceded economists were unlikely heroes, but argued they could contribute to social progress, not least in the provision of food, shelter, safety, health and education.
One day she had asked him to explain his motivation for his choice of profession, but then mercifully had said that one of the most difficult things to understand is your own motivation. “I know only some of the reasons behind the most important decisions of my life.”
On his way back to his hotel in East Jerusalem, Christopher passed a sleeping German Shepherd that bore an eerie resemblance to his old dog Olive. He recalled the question his mother had posed to him when he was still in primary school. “Imagine standing on the deck of a ship holding a cup of poison in one hand and Olive in the other. It’s too windy and you can’t hold on to both. You have to let go of one of them, and the one you drop will fall into the ocean. The poison will kill all the fish and hundreds of millions of people will starve to death. Which one do you let go of? The poison or Olive?”
“Can Olive swim?” he had asked.
“No, no, she’ll drown.”
“I’ll hold on to Olive,” he had replied, feeling ashamed.
“That’s the natural response, Christopher, but is it the moral one?”
He looked down at the cobblestones and the image of the man with the Byzantine eyes came to mind. What He would have told me is that I am far from the right path.
Just then every path he had taken seemed problematic. With the trip to Jerusalem coming to a close, he still had no sense of its meaning. There was nothing to indicate Evelyn had organized it so he could find his father. Maybe she wanted him to find Christ—a way to connect with His philosophy, the suffering and the redemption. After all, wasn’t that what my baptism was about?
“The journey is important and not the destination” was the central point in the poem by Cavafy. But what if things are actually what they seem? Christopher wondered. The destination would then be important and not the journey.
Odysseus had a destination—Ithaca, wife, son, even a father waiting for him there.
Chapter 16
ROME
Who is this José de Olmos?
Christopher had been informed that the mastermind of the resistance to the construction of the dam on the Amazon was this Argentinian environmentalist. The file provided by TerraDyname contained information about his police record, but offered no explanation as to why he had left home to get involved in Brazil. He had no social media presence, though there were links to Resistência Pacifica’s pages. No photos of him came up, except one that had his name in the legend. It was taken from a distance and showed a group of protesters perched like birds in a tree.
To negotiate successfully, Christopher had to understand this man’s motivation. The construction of an environmentally friendly energy source was at stake, and, with it, the ability to lift hundreds of thousands of Brazilians out of poverty. Why was de Olmos so opposed to it?
While waiting for his flight at the Ben Gurion Airport, he perused the homepage of Resistência Pacifica. The heading read, “Our Forests, Our Lives—Stop the Desecration.” He trawled through the website to familiarize himself with the group that was obstructing the construction of the dam. The centerpiece of the homepage was a photo of a river meandering through forest that had been logged, in part also burned.
Rivers and rainforests sustain life. Half of the Amazon Rainforest will be lost by 2025. The ancient FOREST will be ancient history if we do not ACT NOW. Resistência Pacifica is peacefully resisting TerraDyname’s monstrous mega dam at Terra da Árvore Velha (The Land of the Old Tree). Unite to resist the logging and damming of this precious source of life and inspiration.
The page offered the experiences of those who had completed their “tour of duty,” as well as a forum discussing the principles, logistics and effective methods to frustrate TerraDyname. Recent footage taken at the Árvore Velha was included, protesters standing between trees and heavy machinery. Not as I imagined it, but that is their take, Christopher thought. Maybe they have even doctored the images.
In the search field of the site he typed “de Olmos” and downloaded an article written by him.
Is the Brain the Right “Size”?
Puzzled we stand before nature, surprised by our own existence, dazzled by our space-age technology, and unaware of our Stone Age emotions.
The task of creating a sustainable society may prove elusive due to the large-scale behavioral modification required and the limited intellectual, motivational and emotional capacities of our brains.
Despite the apparently large morphological and behavioral gulf between the humans and the great apes, analysis of the DNA shows the humans to be more closely related to the chimpanzees than the chimpanzees to the gorillas. It is so proximal, you can have a blood transfusion from a chimpanzee if you are the right blood group.
Anatomically, the human brain should be considered a branch of an evolutionary tree of brains, a tree that also features the brains of the fish, the reptiles and the birds.
This de Olmos is presenting himself as a philosopher and environmental warrior, thought Christopher. No doubt he will see me as just another suit.
A marginal structural superiority is the rationale for the human hubris. Never since Narcissus fell in love with the reflection of his face in a river has there been such adoration of a bodily organ as there is now of the brain. And never with less justification.
Without considering the severe limitations which evolution has placed on the brain, we dare to play God with the Earth. In an insane effort to countermand global warming we are contemplating geoengineering to dim the sun so that we can burn even more fossil fuels. This is the coup de grâce to the dying humanity.
At least de Olmos is original, Christopher thought. Nobody else has attacked the brain. But how do you negotiate with someone like that?
The title of the next chapter read, “Is the only Sustainable Society one of Hunter-gatherers without Fire?”
What does de Olmos want? To give up fire? To return to prePromethean times? His ideas do not come from any textbook in economics.
From what Christopher had read, it was not clear what academic discipline de Olmos was following; his thinking was an amalgam of ethics, neuroscience, ecology and theology.
I have to hand it to the guy—he has a coherent rationale, convoluted though it is. My own position is not as pure, but it doesn’t require sacrificing everything. Hydroelectric dams deliver major community benefits. And what could be more environmentally friendly?
Maybe this de Olmos knows something I don’t. One thing is certain—one of us is deluded.
Purple bougainvillea adorned his path, but there was no bounce in Christopher’s step as he climbed the Scalinata of Piazza di Spagna and walked through the gardens of the Villa Borghese. Anxiety about his involvement with TerraDyname had gripped him.
Earlier in the day he had checked in at the hotel Il Piccolo and was now going to meet Francesco, an Italian doctor he had met through Michael. He saw him approach accompanied by a tall woman, her luxuriant dark curls shining with a hint of red in the afternoon sun.
“This is my sister, Antonella,” said Francesco after embracing him.
“Mi piace,” said Christopher, his eyes fixed on her dancer-like frame.
“Piacere, piacere,” corrected Francesco. “Mi piace means ‘I like you.’”
“I like ‘mi piace’ better,” said Antonella.
“I know just enough Italian to get myself into trouble.”
“My sister is an undergraduate in English literature,” said Francesco. “You will have no trouble.”
It’s hard to see beyond the beauty, Christopher mused. Evelyn certainly had not sent him on this trip to find a girlfriend, though. If I woke up next to this woman … no, I have to look beyond the obvious. It can only be a digression from where I am going—wherever that might be.
“You are an economist now, eh?” said Francesco. “And you will be working for TerraDyname? Remember when you told me the government must print more dollars and give them to the poor to end poverty?”
“I have a degree now, but it doesn’t mean I have better ideas.”
“Your mother adored you. What a beautiful woman she was.”
“She had planned to come here …”
“I am sorry, Christopher. It would have been double the pleasure if she had.”
Once in Villa Borghese, they were surrounded by Greek, Roman and Renaissance art. A marble statue of Daphne, the beautiful fleeing nymph, showed her in the process of metamorphosing into a laurel tree to escape abduction by Apollo, the sun god.
As they left the Villa, Antonella linked arms with both men and they walked together through the park. He reminded himself Italians were warm; but he also kept thinking that giving way to temptation was not going to bring him peace. Most likely he would revert to his old ways. I have a sense Rome may hold something. My mind needs to be clear.
They went to Piazza di Spagna to take the tube. As much as the sights, it was the people in the Piazza who were the spectacle, milling around the fountain, sitting on the steps, some with arms around each other as they posed for photographs, their chatter rising to meet the noise of falling water.
He looked at the rock boat that was forever sinking inside the fountain. Evelyn had told him it symbolized the flooding of Rome centuries earlier. There was as much water inside the boat as around it.
Cars were weaving their way through the crowd down the one-way street that narrowed into the station tunnel. The three of them navigated idle horse-drawn carriages and stalls laden with toys and souvenirs, the air fragrant with the smell of chestnuts roasting on red glowing coals. Christopher noticed a group of Italian men staring at Antonella, their heads turning to follow her even after they passed by. He glanced at Francesco.
They surfaced from La Metropolitana as evening fell on the Eternal City. They sat in the outdoor section of Osteria di Agrippa, taking in the view of the columns of the Pantheon. “It is here,” said Antonella. “‘Pantheon’ means all gods. Do you think Hadrian was trying to include all religions?”
“No, I reckon he was trying to avoid the word Parthenon,” said Christopher.
He tried to count the robust columns, but some were hidden by others. Nearly two millennia in the rain, nearly two millennia in the sun, the building had something of a ship that sailed proudly through the waves of time.
“Magnificent Marmoset, it’s going to be okay,” said José, putting his arms around her. “They’ll release us soon; they know about our conference.”
Lorena had stopped screaming, but he wasn’t sure she was registering what he was saying. Her face was white, her eyes skittering back and forth. “Lorena, I am here. We are together.”
