The Loss of What We Never Had by Carolyn Thorman

Author:Carolyn Thorman [Thorman, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781684334094
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2019-12-25T22:00:00+00:00

16

Whenever Zak stood before a work of art, he imagined instead of him admiring the object, the object was admiring him. Take the fountain in front of him that was carved by Lalagos, the sixteenth-century genius whose statue of an angel brandishing a spear presided over the square in Malaga. Zak distinctly saw her lips part and heard her say, “Go.”

I’m trying, I’m trying, Zak thought. But, as Chairman Mao said, it’s a protracted struggle. Despite what the media said, in Zak’s opinion, the Sons of the Emir were not entering Spain seeking freedom, justice, or opportunity. They wanted his stuff.

He looked around the square for his crew and spotted them in the corner café. He crossed the flagstone and waved to Antonio, Juan, and Carlos who were grouped along one side of the table, then to Bassem who sat alone on the other. He pulled out the empty chair next to his for Zak.

“The barbarians are at the gate,” Zak said, reaching for a menu. “Who was it said that?”

Bassem tore open a packet of sugar. “You just did.”

“I mean,” Zak said, “someone like Cicero or Homer.”

“Don’t know either guy.”

Fair enough, for how would Bassem know history? Toughened in the streets of Cairo, he was one of the Knight’s best. His jacket hung aslant as if his body was trying to adjust to European styles after years of wearing a kaftan.

Today all the men wore black tee-shirts and jeans. Antonio was the only one with a hat. A John Deere baseball cap worn backward.

“Get that fucking thing off your head,” Zak snapped.

Antonio jammed the cap in his pocket.

Zak studied his team. Good Catholic men, Zak thought with pride, men who put bread on the table, drove their grandmothers to mass and would kill for the church. Zak’s title, conferred by the Archbishop, was Commandant of Andalucía. Appointed, mind you, not elected. “Democracy is for peasants,” the Archbishop said. “Everyone knows peasants can’t manage fiscal affairs. So how can they choose a leader?” At first, Zak found the reasoning overly judgmental. Until he got to thinking about it. It was true, he decided: the distinguishing characteristic of the poor was their inability to acquire or retain money. Successful political movements needed creative fiscal management to survive.

The Knights were supported by the Diocese, by contributions, and by grants from provincial governments who knew full well they were funding a terrorist outfit, but disguised the purpose of the awards with vague goals like, ‘strengthening the infrastructure.’ They funded work-scopes with enough wiggle room to permit anything, including stock-piling weapons and training volunteer militia. The Knights, as an organization, was beginning to come together. Zak believed not only Spain, but he himself on the brink of a new era of discipline, duty and love. Duty, he knew. Love? He was working on it.

A waiter approached, and Zak ordered coffee. The guy tucked the menu under his arm and drifted away.

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