The Book of Q

continued.

“If you’ve got some of those same questions, think about the Faith Alliance. I did. It’s where we can make their future together.”

The shot traced up to the sky, then back down, now the vista a wide beach, a far shot of Harris walking, pants rolled up to the ankles, his own two boys scampering in the tide just ahead of him. The camera moved in.

“I’m Nigel Harris, director of the Faith Alliance. If you’re in need of something to put genuine meaning into your life, and the life of your family, consider joining us.”

The camera followed Harris’s glance to his boys.

“It’s their future. Don’t deny them a personal relationship with faith.”

The camera pulled back as Harris darted over to his sons and began to splash water at them; they, in turn, splashed back.

Fade to black and the words “The Faith Alliance. Our bridge to the next millennium.”

Fade-out.

The lights came up.

Grimaldi remained by the window. “I told you insipid and mawkish sell,” he said as he moved back to his chair. “It’s just how you package them.”

Harris turned to him as he sat. It was only then that he realized how clever Grimaldi had been. The whole morning had been a prelude to this moment, the mindless jargon bandied about at lunch, the first promo. All designed to let this moment have its full effect. Harris now understood why Grimaldi had the reputation he did.

“Yes, I can see that,” he answered.

“So this one’s more to your liking, Colonel Harris?”

“Call me Nige.” He smiled. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Good. Then you’re going to love this next one.”

Everything had quieted down by dinner. They had taken the body to a small house at the end of the village, the home of the local hohxa. There, it would be bathed and cleaned, prepared for burial according to strict Muslim custom, Pearse’s last rites washed away with the rest of the worldly taint on the boy’s soul. They had managed to keep Ivo preoccupied during the somber processional to the hohxa’s house, the other children of the village not so fortunate, essential participants in the ancient ritual. Pearse hadn’t asked; Mendravic wouldn’t have been able to explain.

The leader of the failed raid continued to ignore Pearse throughout the meal, no doubt silently blaming him for the morning’s debacle. Catholic priest. Catholic church. To him, they were one and the same. Skewed logic aside, he did manage to show a considerable warmth to Ivo and Petra, doing his best to keep the dinner conversation lively, the day’s tragedy left for another time. Pearse kept quiet, happy to watch the interaction.

What quickly became clear was just how smart a little boy Ivo really was. Polite to the end, he showed no hesitation in making his points, less patience for anyone who treated him like a child. And always with something of Petra’s swagger in the way he handled his confrontations. In fact, more often than not, it was Petra herself who was on the receiving end.

“That’s not true, Mommy,” he said. “Why should we care about the Serbs when they don’t care about us?” There was always a hint of the parrot in what he said, little phrases that he’d heard from Salko or his mother- mangled just a bit-but always injected at just the right moment. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, but how he said it that allowed his cleverness to shine through. Even when Petra was on the defensive, Pearse sensed her absolute pleasure in Ivo’s little jabs.

“Well, maybe that’s why we should worry about them even more,” she answered.

Somewhere along the way, he’d busied himself with a wedge of bread, rolling pieces of it into tiny balls. Preoccupied or not, Ivo managed to keep up. “No, because Salko said that’s what they want. And we’d be giving them what they want, and we can’t do that.”

“Like what?” she pressed, the rest of the table watching as the little boy kept his eyes fixed on his handiwork, every once in a while a bread ball popping into his mouth.

“Like letting them know we’re afraid. And we aren’t.” Another piece into his mouth.

“Never let them know,” chimed in the raid leader with a smile. “Even if you are, just a little.”

Ivo looked at the man, hesitated, then nodded, a very earnest nod for a little boy. And just as quickly, he was back to the bread.

“Is he always like this?” the man asked, his smile wider still.

“No,” answered Petra. “Sometimes he can get pretty serious.”

The entire table erupted in laughter, Ivo continuing with his very intricate bread work. When he realized that everyone was looking at him, he suddenly became embarrassed. Sensing the moment, Petra drew him in close, kissing the top of his head as he buried himself deep in her side.

“It’s just that they all think you’re as wonderful as I do, Ivi. Must be terribly hard having everyone think you’re so wonderful.”

That only made it worse. Except that perhaps Ivo was enjoying the attention more than he was letting on. And Pearse seemed to enjoy that just as much. The little showman, he thought. Why not? He was, after all, Petra’s boy.

Pearse wasn’t that surprised, then, when, an hour later, Ivo appeared at the door to his room, no less bold than at the table.

“Hello.”

Pearse looked up. He’d been alone on his bed with Ribadeneyra since dinner, the five-line entries no closer to unscrambling than when he’d started. He had managed to tease out some connection among the rest of the entries-even without the final piece to the puzzle-a pattern beginning to emerge, when the little voice broke through.

“Hello,” he answered, laying the pages on his pillow. Ivo remained by the door, his courage taking him only so far. “You can come in, if you want. I won’t bite.”

With a little nod, he pushed open the door, sized up the room, and slowly wandered in, not quite tall enough to see over the top of the chest of drawers. When he was satisfied, he turned to Pearse, one hand lazily running along the edge of the bed.

“Do you come from America?”

Pearse smiled. He’d expected a thousand other questions, not the one, though, most obvious to a seven- year-old boy. “Yup.”

“I knew it,” he said, as if having uncovered some great mystery. “I asked Mommy. She said I should ask you.”

Again, Petra was letting him in. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to merit it. “How’d you know?”

“The way you talk.” He started to roam again, his fingers lighting on the backpack. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing much.”

“Can I open it?”

“Sure.”

He watched as Ivo struggled with the zipper, a giddy anticipation of the unknown within. Or at least of something American. His disappointment on unearthing nothing more than a change of clothes and a few odds and ends was equally intense.

“Sorry,” said Pearse. “No chocolate.”

Ivo snapped his head up, the look now one of astonishment.

“Isn’t that what you were looking for?” asked Pearse.

A coy smile crept across the boy’s face. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Pearse smiled.

For a moment, it looked as if Ivo might not let it go at that. Then, just as quickly, he was on to his next topic. “Did you come from America last night?”

“Actually, I haven’t been to America for a couple of years.” Another flash of disappointment. “Have you ever been to America?”