Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,104

you got out...what about Lázaro and Benjamin?”

“Both sent to another country in South America. They’ll stay out of Bolivia for a while, I assume.”

“And Ishmael?” Alejo asked.

“I have absolutely no idea.” Alejo could picture Stalin shaking his head, scraggly hair dragging over his bulky shoulders. “I hightailed it out of there after we got to Asuncion, and took my parents with me. They’re safely tucked away in Japan…I know you won’t tell.”

The conversation cheered Alejo up more than he could have imagined. Stalin was alive and well, and possibly dining every evening on sushi and rice. Alejo assumed that Ishmael Khan wouldn’t be showing up in Bolivia for some time, after an anonymous call Alejo had made explaining that the Khan Foundation was spiriting away Bolivians to fight as mujahedeen, in the name of scholarships and higher education.

Surprisingly, Stalin kept in touch; a week after his phone call, Alejo’s cell shimmered with the alien sound that announced an arriving text from his old friend.

“Guess where I am?” the little screen read.

Alejo was debating between “Las Vegas” and “Disneyland” when a second wave of sound announced Stalin’s answer. Alejo clicked the sound off and read: “At mass. Yes, that’s right. I’m sitting here in Spain at mass with about five little old ladies.” Then, following quickly, “And they’re all dressed in black. Is that creepy, or what?”

Alejo pulled out the side keyboard, which he had used maybe once, and keyed in, “Despite the creepiness of black, are you finding what you’re looking for?” The image of Stalin, probably dressed in a t-shirt that accented his beer belly and ratty old jeans, kneeling on the thin wooden rail at the back of the cathedral pew was extremely amusing.

It was also fascinating, given the fact that Stalin believed he already knew everything about God and had said he would rather have his carnal pleasures. Alejo was sure the fact that he was nervously repeating mass along with five wrinkly, age-encrusted Spanish women meant that Stalin was rethinking whether he was going to pay the price.

“Not yet…there’s something here, but I still don’t know if I’m ready. But che, I’m thinking about it.”

Another message came. “I was very impressed with you, willing to die for what you believe.” Alejo hoped this was a good sign. “But then again, so was Gabriel,” Stalin added. “I’m still looking, che. God have mercy…he knows I’m looking, but the women here in Spain are so beautiful…”

Alejo typed, “Don’t you want to talk on the phone? My fingers are cramping.”

“Can’t. Time to sing. The priest is giving me the eye. Talk to you later, Alejo.”

Alejo slid his phone back in his pocket with a smile and leaned his head back towards the sunshine.

34

lilac

A COUNTRY HAD NEVER SEEMED SO EMPTY and hollow as Spain did at that moment to Stalin Gomez. While Mom and Dad had their hearts set on a little house in Japan, Stalin had known immediately upon arriving to get them settled in that Japan would never be for him.

“Creepy, very creepy” were the only words that described for him the temples with dull golden statues smiling pacifically at him as he passed. The mélange of slippery sea creatures tacked to wooden planks with wicked looking nails would have been eerie enough at some sort of taxidermy for water creatures display. The fact that it was in a part of the market meant for grocery shopping had given him the heebie-jeebies.

With all the money he had pilfered from his bank account, Stalin bought his parents a three bedroom house in a cozy neighborhood full of foreigners, a shiny silver Lexus, and hired two servants to clean, cook, and fill the house with furniture. Then he had gotten back on the plane to a more pleasant destination, planning on sending his parents tickets to come visit.

They weren’t that old yet, after all.

Spain seemed like a perfect pick to settle down and hide. It was warm, they spoke Spanish, and rumors were that bathing was topless.

At first, the city of Cordoba, where Stalin had rented a nice flat, had seemed very cosmopolitan and smacked of Europe. All the excitement soon died away as he found himself lumbering down the gray sidewalks day after day, with no job, no steady girlfriend, and no friends to speak of.

The conversation he had with Alejo that day in the coffee shop about Jesus kept ringing in Stalin’s ears, ever since he had realized that for Alejo, the whole Jesus thing was more than