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Authors: Luis Miguel Rocha
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static electricity. Confusion and alarm spread through Sarah. The past was at the door like on that night. What the hell was going on?
“Papa?” She said his name to bring him back to earth.
“Sarah.” She heard a different voice that flooded her with panic and nervousness. Oh no. It can’t be him. Is it?
“JC?” she asked fearfully, hoping she was confused and had heard wrong. Please, no. Don’t let it be him .
“I’m honored you haven’t forgotten me.”
It was him. Her legs gave out; if it weren’t for the fact she was seated, she would have fallen on the floor.
“How are you since our last conversation in the Palatino?” he asked just to make small talk, something that was not part of his personality and awakened distrust in Sarah. She thought back on the conversation she’d had with JC in the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome and the promise they would talk again. Almost a year later, this call kept that promise.
“What do you want? What are you doing in my parents’ house?” Sarah cut the formalities as she regained her reason. She couldn’t show her fear, no matter how much she felt it. This was the way to fight with people like this, without mincing words. JC was in Portugal, at her parents’ house, if the caller ID on the phone didn’t lie.
“Where are your manners, dear?” JC protested without hiding his sarcasm. “I’m having a pleasant conversation with your father, accompanied by a magnificent wine. We are at the most crucial point of our reunion, the reason he’s called you.”
“What do you want from us?” Her voice came out hard, as she wished, in spite of the inner turmoil that tormented her.
“I’m going to simplify things to make myself understood completely with no room for misunderstanding.”
“I’m all ears.”
A second of silence to get Sarah’s complete concentration. The old man knew how to get his listener’s attention. A gun to the head wasn’t always necessary.
“Leave London now. Bring what I left you in the Palatino and do not talk to anyone, warn anyone, or wait for anyone.”
“And if I don’t do what you ask me?” Sarah confronted him.
“In that case your father can prepare to ship your corpse back here because you’ll be eliminated today.”
Chapter 11
H ere we find the mortal remains of the patron of truck drivers, tunnel workers, hatmakers, pharmacists, haircutters, gentlemen and pilgrims, pilgrimages and roads, from Chile, Peru, Mexico, Colombia, Cuba, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Galicia, and Spain, and, to cut the long list short, the Spanish army. He is known by many names, Iacobus, Jacob, Jaco, James, Jacques, Jacome, Jaume, Jaime, but that which inspires most believers is Santiago. Santiago the Greater, apostle of Christ, killed by Herod’s sword, brother of the other apostle, Saint John the Evangelist, both sons of Salome and Zebediah.
The exact date is lost, thanks to the uncertainties of centuries when parchments were lost or consumed by the fire of despots or by the simple, implacable passage of time. In the year 813 or 814, Pelagius, a Christian hermit, told Teodomirus, the bishop of Iria Flavia, here in Galicia, about a star shining on a hill. There are also those who in this part of the legend, or truth, depending on how you see it, substitute strange lights or a sign from Heaven for the star. Whatever it was, it fell upon a specific place, an uninhabited hill, as if someone wanted to reveal something hidden. In this way Teodomirus found a tomb, and inside, a headless corpse with a head tucked under his arm, presumably his own. All the clues pointed to the corpse belonging to the apostle Santiago the Greater, forever immortalized as Santiago de Compostela, not to be confused with Santiago the Lesser, one of the other twelve followers of Christ. Legend or not, millions of people have visited this sacred place. For twelve centuries.
Here in the Praza do Obradoiro, Marius Ferris was moved by the silence of the place. He looked at
“Papa?” She said his name to bring him back to earth.
“Sarah.” She heard a different voice that flooded her with panic and nervousness. Oh no. It can’t be him. Is it?
“JC?” she asked fearfully, hoping she was confused and had heard wrong. Please, no. Don’t let it be him .
“I’m honored you haven’t forgotten me.”
It was him. Her legs gave out; if it weren’t for the fact she was seated, she would have fallen on the floor.
“How are you since our last conversation in the Palatino?” he asked just to make small talk, something that was not part of his personality and awakened distrust in Sarah. She thought back on the conversation she’d had with JC in the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome and the promise they would talk again. Almost a year later, this call kept that promise.
“What do you want? What are you doing in my parents’ house?” Sarah cut the formalities as she regained her reason. She couldn’t show her fear, no matter how much she felt it. This was the way to fight with people like this, without mincing words. JC was in Portugal, at her parents’ house, if the caller ID on the phone didn’t lie.
“Where are your manners, dear?” JC protested without hiding his sarcasm. “I’m having a pleasant conversation with your father, accompanied by a magnificent wine. We are at the most crucial point of our reunion, the reason he’s called you.”
“What do you want from us?” Her voice came out hard, as she wished, in spite of the inner turmoil that tormented her.
“I’m going to simplify things to make myself understood completely with no room for misunderstanding.”
“I’m all ears.”
A second of silence to get Sarah’s complete concentration. The old man knew how to get his listener’s attention. A gun to the head wasn’t always necessary.
“Leave London now. Bring what I left you in the Palatino and do not talk to anyone, warn anyone, or wait for anyone.”
“And if I don’t do what you ask me?” Sarah confronted him.
“In that case your father can prepare to ship your corpse back here because you’ll be eliminated today.”
Chapter 11
H ere we find the mortal remains of the patron of truck drivers, tunnel workers, hatmakers, pharmacists, haircutters, gentlemen and pilgrims, pilgrimages and roads, from Chile, Peru, Mexico, Colombia, Cuba, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Galicia, and Spain, and, to cut the long list short, the Spanish army. He is known by many names, Iacobus, Jacob, Jaco, James, Jacques, Jacome, Jaume, Jaime, but that which inspires most believers is Santiago. Santiago the Greater, apostle of Christ, killed by Herod’s sword, brother of the other apostle, Saint John the Evangelist, both sons of Salome and Zebediah.
The exact date is lost, thanks to the uncertainties of centuries when parchments were lost or consumed by the fire of despots or by the simple, implacable passage of time. In the year 813 or 814, Pelagius, a Christian hermit, told Teodomirus, the bishop of Iria Flavia, here in Galicia, about a star shining on a hill. There are also those who in this part of the legend, or truth, depending on how you see it, substitute strange lights or a sign from Heaven for the star. Whatever it was, it fell upon a specific place, an uninhabited hill, as if someone wanted to reveal something hidden. In this way Teodomirus found a tomb, and inside, a headless corpse with a head tucked under his arm, presumably his own. All the clues pointed to the corpse belonging to the apostle Santiago the Greater, forever immortalized as Santiago de Compostela, not to be confused with Santiago the Lesser, one of the other twelve followers of Christ. Legend or not, millions of people have visited this sacred place. For twelve centuries.
Here in the Praza do Obradoiro, Marius Ferris was moved by the silence of the place. He looked at
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