The Antarcticans (7 page)

When doors of the lift opened into the ballroom, Gavin’s eyes widened. Leo hadn’t mentioned the scale of the event. The space was so vast that he couldn’t see the other end of the ballroom. The eyes of all the guests standing nearby with cocktails in their hands turned to see who was coming next. Gavin recognized some of the faces in the crowd from Hollywood and others from the news, political leaders from around the world. A hunched man in an orange-and-red robe and square glasses was standing closest to him, talking to a celebrity that Gavin recognized. The floor was made of flat screens. Immediately in front of the elevator was an image of a descending round well, made from stacked bricks that dropped hundreds of feet into blackness. Small words with wings fluttered up from the depths. Leo stood back and waited for Gavin to advance into the room. Gavin hesitated, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Was there really a hole in the floor in front of him? The winged words came closer to the surface, where he could read them. “Do you have faith?” was the first phrase, followed by “Create your will.” When his eyes adjusted to the floor, he stepped out onto the words and into the room. The Dalai Lama and the male celebrity gave him nods of approval. Gavin nodded back.

He walked through the crowd. A waiter held a silver tray with a glass of amber liquid over six perfectly shaped ice cubes. “For you, Mr. Pennings. Johnny Blue on the rocks.”

The tablecloths were made of woven feathers, each table a different color. The centerpieces were collections of hydrangeas, petunias, and roses with illuminated wires laced through them, turning different colors that reached up into the darkness of the ceiling. Gavin stared up, but he couldn’t see where the centerpieces ended. Judging from the number of forks and spoons, the tables were set for at least five courses. Spotting his name on a card, he sat down at his place setting.

“No, no. I need to introduce you to a few people. You can’t just sit here at your table. That isn’t how these events work.” Leo had his hand on his shoulder.

Leo urged him on toward a tall man with sandy-brown skin, black hair, an engaging smile, and fractal green eyes. Most of the men in the room were wearing some form of tuxedo. This man wore a green velvet Pashtun dress, with a bright-yellow Peshawari turban.

“Oh, hello, my friend.” His voice was deep and joyful, and he was holding out his hand.

Leo stepped back so they could see each other. “Mr. Ruftan, this is Pastor Pennings. I believe Lucifer wanted you two to meet.”

The music in the ballroom stepped up a beat from a lazy blue jazz to an upbeat full orchestra piece. The crowd reshuffled, and the dance floor became visible to Gavin. Sequined and sparkling ball gowns billowed; tuxedo tails caught flight; and the cocktails poured from the bars stationed at the perimeter of the room with the help of what seemed like an army of waiters. The lighting from beneath the floor turned the room a cool pink, which gave everyone a strange hue; the lights on the centerpieces pulsated with the drum of the music. The atmosphere was bordering on a disco.

Ruftan leaned over to Gavin and quietly said in his ear, “I’m sorry to hear about your son. I have a similar story. Mr. Lucifer thought we might be able to commiserate.” He looked up toward his turban. The corner of his lip followed, and his index finger went into the air. “Maybe not the right word?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve gotten over all pretension since the first time my son tried to kill himself.”

Ruftan gave a surprised chortle. “You’re living life with abandon, no?”

“More like a cocktail of fear, apathy, and hope.” Gavin held his drink up in the air. “Cheers.”

“Do you know who we are seated with for dinner? Quite an impressive group. I think you’ll enjoy them.”

“Really? I’ve always found the more impressive someone is supposed to be, the more I’m let down. Does Lucifer go all out for every event?

“This is nothing.” Ruftan waved his hand around.

“You’d think if he was really interested in helping people, the money could be better spent elsewhere.”

“It’s not my place to judge him. Not after all he has done for us.” Ruftan interlaced his fingers and pushed his thumb tips against each other.

“So tell me about your son.” Gavin said.

Ruftan tugged his fabric of his Pashtun into alignment, stood up straight, and looked out at the dance floor. “You sure you have the time, Mr. Pennings?”

“I’ve got all night,” Gavin said.

“Luftan was the perfect boy, you see, from the moment he came from my dear wife, Nazia. He knocked at the door to this world while we were thirty-eight thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, making our way to America from our home in the Pakistani city of Lahore for the first time. Or so we thought. We were crossing that part of the ocean where the winds of the earth wind together and exchange hands, and the air was bumpy. Up and down, careening all over the skies. The flight attendants were even buckled tightly in their seats. I could see one of them from my seat. Pretty, young, her blond hair pulled back with a sparkly barrette I had seen a hundred times at the bazaars, and her uniform snugly embracing her bosom. I remember that because, never having been to the Western world…” He paused. “…I found that hairstyle and color to be so intriguing.” He laughed at his own insinuation.

“Nazia let out a holler. Now this is a quiet woman, and I hope you meet her someday. One thing you’ll know about her very quickly is that she speaks only when spoken to and keeps deference to me. But this time, when I looked over at her, she was clutching her belly, one hand above and one beneath. The distinct resemblance of her abdomen to a basketball protruding straight out into this world had convinced all the women in our town this was without a doubt a boy. Now my wife was holding our son as if she were ready to pass the ball at any moment.

“‘My dear, what is it?’ I said.

“‘Oh, Ruftan, it’s time. He’s coming.’

“‘Right now?’

“You might have guessed, Mr. Pennings: I’m a lover of the American basketball. I looked over at the flight attendant again and unbuckled my seat belt. We were still sloshing from side to side through the turbulence. She looked back at me and mouthed something I didn’t understand, but she pointed for me to sit down. I ignored her and made my way to the galley, where I grabbed a washcloth from a bin. I put some cold water on it and brought it back for my wife to put on her head. She was heating up, ready to give birth. The flight attendant figured out what was happening by now and was talking with someone on the phone. She unbuckled her harness, disappeared into the front of the plane, and returned with a bottle of oxygen, three big blankets, and a bottle of water. I reclined my Nazia’s seat slightly for her and put up the footrest. She was panting, and I looked into her eyes. She nodded to me. I knew we would not have the fortune of waiting until the wheels touched the runway of our destination before the child would come.

“The flight attendants did their best, as did two of the passengers, who were nurses. They identified themselves when the captain came over the loudspeaker and announced what was happening in seat 14A. By the time we touched down at Dulles Airport, we had named him Luftan, partly after the airline and partly after me, and he was quietly asleep in my Nazia’s arms. Although a stretcher and an ambulance were waiting for us at the gate, my son had made his way into this world without incident. I politely declined the help, but the medic was frantic that we go to the hospital to make sure everything was okay. I took a look at my lovely wife and new son, and while it was very clear that Nazia was sore and uncomfortable—my son covered in dried blood and both weary from the experience—they were just fine. Who would pay for this trip to the hospital anyway? I had always heard that medical care in America was an unaffordable and slick business, ready to rip off any unwary partaker of its services. I wasn’t about to become another victim.”

Soft chimes floated from the band at the front of the dance floor.

Ruftan shrugged and put his hands up in the air. “It’s time for dinner. I suppose I’ll have to tell you the rest of the story another time.”

Ruftan and Gavin made their way to their table. It was the first time Gavin had realized that Leo had disappeared. Ruftan was seated at the other side of the table; the Dalai Lama was to Gavin’s right; and on his left sat a rather short, pudgy man who was mumbling something about the way his name had been spelled on his place card. It read, “Shimon Webster.” Everyone made their introductions before the first course of petit duck soufflé was placed in front of them and steaming crusty rolls were set on the small saucer to Gavin’s left. There were so many utensils and glasses at Gavin’s plate that he wasn’t sure which ones he should use. He listened to the polite conversation around the table, trying to pick up the reason they had all come together for the dinner. The talk was pleasant, but it only skimmed the surface of each person’s situation. He heard several “Nice to see you again” and “I can’t believe its been that long” comments.

He leaned over to the Dalai Lama next to him and awkwardly said, “So how do you know Lucifer?”

“He’s been involved in helping the people of Tibet return to an independent country since 1950. He’s also a close friend of the Nechung Oracle. The Oracle sees things we cannot see, and Lucifer receives great insight from him.” He moved the food around on his plate.

“Is there something in Tibet that helps Lucifer’s cause?”

The Dalai Lama smiled. “Lucifer’s cause cannot be defined in one breath. It is like a wide, thin veil that blankets the earth, often difficult to understand. It would be like asking, ‘Where does the wind blow in America?’ All of us here do our part with the piece of the effort we are given. I don’t know anything else to do.”

When the last sip of Port was consumed and the leftover whipped Grand Marnier was scraped from each dish for its delicious flavor, Gavin made his way back to his quarters. Joshua crossed his mind, and he wished him well, but the libation haze let him know everything was going to be all right. Just like Mr. Ruftan told him it would. Sleep came quickly, as did Leo’s morning knock.

Gavin had his restraint unbuckled before the helicopter touched down. He fumbled with the door handle before the pilot unlocked the door and gave him the thumbs-up. He raced to his car, which had two tickets sticking out from under the wiper blade.
Maybe Lucifer’s connections aren’t that great
, he thought.

In less than an hour, he was at the hospital, walking into the mental ward he had gotten to know well. The leaves of the maple trees flanking the entrance were starting to turn a tinge orange. Knowing he would need his driver’s license to sign in, he felt around in his pocket for it.

He recognized Ms. Shelby through the sliding glass doors. She was plump, with closely cropped hair and little oval glasses that always made her look like she was squinting.

“Well, hello there, Pastor Pennings. I’m so sorry to hear your son is back,” she said, her voice dropping off.

“Room?” He smiled.

“2010. I just need to take a copy of your ID.”

“I’m here more than I’m in my office, Ms. Shelby. Don’t you have it on file?”

“Those are the rules, Pastor. Sorry ’bout that.” She held out her hand.

She photocopied his license and printed a sticker badge he could affix to his shirt with a barcode, picture, and his name, and then he took off down the hallway. He saw Noila’s back turned to the door; she was speaking with someone, but he couldn’t see who it was. He didn’t want to be rude and barge in on their conversation. It could be one of her girlfriends, and he always respected their private conversations. He stopped short of the threshold then caught a trail of cologne he had smelled recently. It smelled like expensive cigars, tobacco, sugar, and a leather-bound book swirled together. It was the smell of Lucifer. Gavin’s mind made the connection when he got closer and saw Lucifer’s arms wrapped around his wife. He was clad in a tight-fitting black corduroy jacket, with gold stitching holding the quilted, black, patent-leather elbow pads in place. His hand rested next to Noila’s sandy-blond hair. He gave Gavin a warm smile that said, “Come join in our hug.”

“I’m so glad you’re here! Say, Noila and I were just talking…gorgeous name—I can’t get over it. And I’d like to bring Joshua aboard the ship to meet with Dr. Cristofari.” He turned back to Noila. “Gavin has had the great pleasure of meeting her, and well, this isn’t a medical opinion, but I think she’ll do wonders for him. What do you think?” He pushed a few stray blond locks out of his eyes and glanced at Joshua, who was either asleep or pretending to be so he wouldn’t have to interact with the doctors and his family.

“My wife and I need a moment alone to discuss this,” Gavin said.

“We do?” Noila asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes.”

Lucifer put his hands up and walked out of the room.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into with him. When did he show up anyway?” Gavin asked.

“I don’t know. Twenty or thirty minutes ago. He said you knew he was coming here.” She looked over at Lucifer, who was standing in the hallway, and whispered to make sure he couldn’t hear her, “What’s the big deal? He seems like a really nice guy, so charming.” She was blushing a little.

Gavin guessed Lucifer had this effect on most women. He looked squarely at his wife and took her hands in his. “I’ve just spent the last day with him—that’s where I was. I didn’t want to tell you because, well, I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you might be ashamed of me for pursuing answers from him.” He looked at her and winced.