Part 13 (2/2)

Jose blinked at him through his tears, his only thought to get away from this unpredictable figure of authority.

'Firstly what are you doing blocking the doorway to my church and secondly what are you bawling about like that?'

Jose tried to run but the priest held him tightly and it was clear he was too strong for him. Jose also sensed a basic kindliness in the enquiry. Nevertheless he bent his head to bite the ma.s.sive fist around his wrist when his head was roughly yanked back by the hair.

'You will answer me my young ragam.u.f.fin. Or I'll.....'

'Kill me!' spat Jose.

'Kill you? Of course I won't kill you, you stupid urchin!'

'You killed Edmo and Luis!'

'What by G.o.d are you talking about! I haven't killed anyone and don't intend to!'

'You did! You did! All you people did! Lemme go, I ain't don nothin' to you. Lemme go!' Jose tugged at his arm trying to release himself from the big man's grip.

'Come inside, my young panther, we're going to get to the bottom of this.' With one beefy hand retaining his hold on Jose's wrist and the other holding onto his long, greasy hair, Father Ignatio hauled the spitting cat of the scared but resolute boy into the body of the church. Jose had never been inside a church. He gazed around him with awe. He couldn't make it out. He'd never seen anything like it. Eventually he gazed up at the crucifix above the altar and was further amazed. Here was the same suffering he was going through. The priest felt the change of att.i.tude in the boy and let go his hair, maintaining a hold on his wrist. He let go as Jose pulled away from him to approach the huge figure of Christ which towered over both of them. It was an unusually graphic carving, and the artist had given the features a particularly poignant half-smile as of someone exultant while enduring the greatest pain.

'Who's that?' Jose asked.

'You don't know?' replied the priest.

'I wouldn't ask if I knew would I!' Jose slumped on a chair. He stared at the figure of the Christ and then allowed his shocked emotions to flood out of him in a paroxysm of tears.

There were two important consequences from this apparently chance meeting of criminal street urchin and rough priest. Jose joined the church as the only available place of safety, and where he could learn to read and write, and Father Ignatio set up one of the first refuge's for the dispossessed children of the Favela.

As an alter-boy he received tuition in the three R's from Father Ignatio and being quick he was soon teaching the boys who came after him. Father Ignatio wanted him to train as a teacher, and found funds for his enrolment at a Catholic teacher training school in Sao-Paulo. But for Jose teachers were ten-a-penny, he wanted real substance from life, he wanted quant.i.ty. Father Ignatio was badly disappointed but, thinking Jose's talent was G.o.d given and needed its head, he arranged Jose a job as a clerk with HydroNorte, a company specialising in hydro-electric engineering and Jose found himself in the Northern forests as part of the Tucurui great dam building enterprise. From there to here, the story of Jose Condamine would fill several volumes in themselves.

Throughout his eventful life the Tucurui remained with him and drove the motivation for his task in JNO. The boy from the Favela, seeking meaning for his life found what he sought in the struggle for power and the means to acquire the things of the world. He was not naive, he knew his winning meant others must lose - and he was determined to win at all costs. His ruthlessness was a local legend.

Despite his determination he was surprised to find he was not ready for his part in the 'pacification' and ultimate destruction of the life-ways of the Parakanan Indians and was as surprised at his positive reaction to the vengeance of the pretty water-hyacinth. He was astounded to discover that deep in his psyche, in his efforts to escape, he had taken no account of his own history. To this point his struggle had been simply a personal battle against insuperable odds.

At the moment of his greatest personal achievement, he found himself reeling from a feeling of responsibility he could not shake off. The devastation of the Parakanan meant he had selfishly, and with relish, helped to destroy something greater than anything he might ever create whatever his own efforts. He vowed thereafter, 'if you can't make it, you have no right to destroy it.' As the local representative of the seriously corrupt Indian Protection Service he recognised too late that the thirty-million dollar fortune he opportunistically made from the dubiously legal sale of hard woods from the forest of the Parakanan, was only made possible through the destruction of an entire nation of innocent people by deliberate genocide through the activities of his colleagues at HydroNorte. While he took no direct part in the cynical introduction of infectious diseases, he certainly profited highly.

As a requital, the G.o.ds of the lost forest and the bereft peoples, threatened the finished dam with the water-hyacinth. Its violet-pale flower and s.h.i.+ny leaves haunted engineers' dreams and cost HydroNorte millions of dollars as its silent progress swamped the megawatts by threading its way naturally into the central heart of the machinery erected on the bones of a people and the desolation of a forest. Nature worked its revenge on these works of man and silted up the lake from the decaying vegetation under the flooded ancestral lands of the 'pacified' Indians. He knew then he would have traded all that he owned to restore life to the Parakanan and he knew in his heart the destruction was a crime against time itself, for no more than a fistful of dollars. But it was too late. So he saluted the water-hyacinth - and sought ways of making amends.

He kept his millions without which he would be powerless, and found out how to re-invest in the future to develop what he had previously helped to destroy. Money opened doors and made opportunities. As a subterfuge he gave the appearance of turning away from his growing business interests and behaved as the extravagant playboy millionaire, courted the paparazzi and confused the business press by falsifying the true extent of his wealth and the direction of his true spending.

He was rescued by Penny Conway before his inevitable bankruptcy became public. They met on the luxury-yacht of Matsuko Morii, anch.o.r.ed off Recife one summer. Together they explored the Amazon. With the help of the JNO network, changes began to appear in the fortunes both of the Indians in the Amazon Basin and people in the exploitation business. Indians began to prosper more often while business had an ever harder time. It was the beginning, of a David and Goliath battle with the odds in public, only seeming to be in favour of Goliath.

Matsuko Morii, Hera's other protege, was a star in the firmament of a certain kind of international upper crust. She shone brightly in a society which made the very essence of being from who you are, where you winter and summer, where and with whom you weekend. Without her to develop and nurture the 'scene'; its collective light would be sadly dimmed. If nothing else she was a known intimate of the elusive Dodona's. This made her intriguing and sought after since gossip about the enigmatic family was all but impossible to acquire. She would let drop hints and asides about their doings. It was known they 'allowed' her to act as kind of spokes-person for them and there being no other source she was therefore much solicited by her set and much pursued by the media.

Voted the hostess of the decade, it was said she had raised more money for charity in ten years than anyone else had managed in a lifetime. What no one knew was that each Dollar, Pound, Yen, Deutchmark and Rouble had been matched with two by Lucina Dodona and the proceeds invested by JNO, the profits founding schools and colleges in third-world countries and in the so called fourth-world where the under-cla.s.s's slums were infesting the 'first-worlds' cities.

Three weeks after the meeting of the Advisory Group at Markham, at the 'Friends of the Earth' charity ball held this year in the Peggy Guggenheim Museum, she totally ignored Jose Condamine, any connections between them were merely socially coincidental.

Matsuko even without her expertly applied make-up, resembled a fragile porcelain doll. She was taller than the average j.a.panese, a willow gliding on tiny feet, deliciously shod. The skin of her delicate limbs against the dark fabric of her dress, was like the luminous sheen of ivory on velvet. She held her head with an authority surprising in one so slight. Her short jet-black hair, a living helmet, was expertly cut to her fine skull and nape which framed her head in the same way as her simple dress defined her body. Her face at first bland in its lack of obvious expression was paradoxically fascinating in its symmetry. Her slow, hesitant smile revealed small, even teeth, but failed to give any effective insight into her personality. Her movements were studied and semi-formalised. Paradoxically, the unexpected perfection of her body and its movements made observers aware of the cra.s.sness of their inevitable feelings of physical desire.

While the men dreamed of taking her to bed they could not imagine actually putting their coa.r.s.e hands on that fragile, perfect body. The women were both intimidated and fascinated.

She had discovered early in her years in the USA that to fascinate the American mind was to achieve inexhaustible admiration and continued attention. She cultivated subtlety to disguise her shock at their rawness; understatement to foil their brashness; she perfected to a high level the Eastern stereotype of inscrutability; to avoid too much real contact.

She was vitally present, but unattainable: or was she really so aloof? So strong was the illusion of absence in presence that together with her wealth and position as favourite daughter of billionaire industrialist, Sigiura Morii, she was a natural queen unable to be ignored or dismissed. For her part she played her role impeccably, disdain and arrogance perfectly camouflaged to fascinate as one desired but unattainable.

The people she cultivated socially were the important people of the world. They were the keystones in the world's business, political and financial establishments. She met them all one way or another. Her known social links with Zarian and Lucina Dodona made her increasingly important to know as JNO grew.

Completing a conversation with Erika Pannayotis, the fas.h.i.+on model of the year, she moved across the floor, through knots of people who were no impediment to her studied movements and she snared her quarry for today. Franklin T. Colwyn the American President of the McMa.n.u.s Publis.h.i.+ng Corporation. She expertly detached him from his less than animated conversation with a couple she vaguely knew had something to do with aggregates in the Mid West, of whom the wife was an avid collector of lesser impressionists.

Extracting a grateful Colwyn from an effusive description of a wonderful p.i.s.saro, with a divine politeness, she led him away through the throng with a subtle pressure of her hand on his arm, until alone in a quiet recess, he was flattered despite himself, to receive direct attention from this celestial creature.

'Mr Colwyn,' she spoke confidentially. 'There's a favour I would ask. Not for me, you understand, but for my good friend Lucina Dodona, who would have asked you herself, but being busy, she could not come tonight. She sends her best wishes and wondered if it might be possible for me to arrange for you to travel to Ios, she would be so pleased to make your acquaintance.'

Franklin T. Colwyn like the rest of his world was aware Lucina Dodona never gave interviews. It was as if he had been summonsed for an exclusive audience with the Queen of England.

'Miss Morii, there is nothing I would not do for your sake, and even more so for the legendary Mrs. Dodona. But why afford me such an honour?' His large frame inclined towards the fragile creature who had her hand on his arm.

'Oh Mr Colwyn San. 'Afford the honour' - you are so droll. Mrs Dodona as you know is shy of publicity and would not wish, how shall I put it? - to burst inelegantly upon such a scene as this and cause consternation by changing her habits as far as the press are concerned. But I have already taken the liberty of telling her she can rely on you to understand her needs in this matter.'

'Come, come Miss Morii, please be more direct, I am a newspaper man not a diplomat, what can be so important that the president of the McMa.n.u.s press must travel to Greece? I have many excellent journalists on the pay-roll who would do an excellent job.'

This was stated without impatience, he was actually amused at the prospect of working more closely with this renowned beauty and personally encountering the formidable and retiring Mrs Dodona. The thought of the great lady was enough for him to agree without the incentive of there being something in it for his company.

'I'm afraid I cannot say Mr Colwyn, but there you are, I have discharged my responsibility. Can I say you will go?'

My dear Miss Morii, I am honoured in the extreme. Wild-horses would not prevent it.'

Chapter 3.

Even as each member of Penny's Advisory Group was making their different mark on the international scene helped by the information and interpretation gadgetry at Markham: in the JNO building in New York an impromptu meeting between Hephaestos, Athena and Prometheus, took place after Zeus had grandly announced. 'Hera and I will go to Ios, we will make our centre of communications in this obscure place far from prying eyes of whomsoever. You may do as you wish. No doubt you will need to consider your strategy. Hera and I are as one - are we not my cuckoo?' Hera remained silent. Zeus continued. 'I tire of the helter-skelter of commercial life in this city. I leave it to you. I need rest to make myself ready for the test with Yahweh. Where better than on Homer's isle with my wife at my side?'

Hephaestos lifted his ma.s.sive head to his mother who merely raised a shapely eyebrow. 'Once again Ios will become the centre of JNO' she said. 'My Lord and I will see to the main events from there.' Hephaestos couldn't be sure but he thought she winked at him.

Prior to his departure Zeus spoke with each of them separately and then, as usual, swanned off in billowing clouds, without indicating his complete intentions. He and Hera went together with Mnemosyne and Themis. Pan disappeared altogether on business of is own. Hephaestos, Athena and Prometheus remained in the JNO building in New York.

They sat in the same leafy bower communicating on L3 in an instantaneous web of pure thought melding and branching. Since the battle of the t.i.tans for the control of time, the senior G.o.ds had rarely needed to commune in this way. The virtually complete hegemony of Yhawhe had given little opportunity for public appearances. Some had managed a little counter-culture here and there with a favoured mortal, and were happy to have kept a bit of balance between Yahweh's 'out there' world and the more solid earthly experience of human reality.

They were acutely conscious that all communications between them were available to anyone on the Chronosphere with the desire to listen in. Since Zeus' announcement there were many eavesdroppers. So they communicated on L3 to discourage any but the most dedicated of them. Those inclined to listen in on this high level deserved to hear the communications of such senior G.o.ds, for it would be known how they stood and thus may avoid unnecessary complications and recriminations later - were there to be any after all was done. A thought meld on the 'sphere at L3 by expert users is nothing like a conversation and it cannot be reproduced. However, the essence of the infinitely far more complex communication, could possibly, be quite inadequately rendered or reduced to mere speech, to appear something like: Hephaestos:(Stumping up and down on his deformed legs.) I want the 'sphere to know what is going on. All must know it is not up to us - what happens in the world - but that mortals must manage on their own with the help of a puny, uncertain boy and his remarkable, but nevertheless, only mortal mother. I help as best I can and I think you do the same. So let it be said clearly that we three are the best companions mortals have.

(the word 'companion' understates the actual communication which was that over the aeons since the creation of this fifth race of mortals, there has been a continuous argument in the Pantheon about the status of mortals in the world and their relations.h.i.+p to the undying G.o.ds. Even the word 'mortal' fails to convey the complex relations.h.i.+p the G.o.ds have with time, compared with the pitiable replenis.h.i.+ng capacities of reproductive life on earth which for the G.o.ds only makes the species appear immortal. The short lives of its individuals makes constant new beginnings tedious work).

This is not Zeus' battle. His struggle is with the control and use of time itself. He will not let Hades make new links with Chronos to strengthen the past beyond its real value and allow it to spill over into the present, despite the fact that Hades' big battalions of the long dead may now be developing the power to confront us.

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