“Our children need to understand what ties them together, not what separates them. And faith is that answer.”
Next, an equally Stepfordesque scene appeared, people on a generic Main Street, again ample ethnic diversity, ideal families strolling along, stopping to chat with one another, three separate churches in the background-one seemingly a synagogue, the lines, though, too blurred to make it out with any detail. In some sort of high-tech special effect, the three buildings began to grow into one another, the happy little community watching the transformation. No quote this time. Just the voice.
“It’s time to build an alliance of faith, where religious differences fade in favor of a wider spiritual commitment.”
Images of Harris, several other notable members of the alliance, and an American flag peppered the screen, the final image that of a field somewhere in the Midwest.
“The Faith Alliance. It’s our bridge to the next millennium.”
The screen went black, the lights came up. Harris turned to Grimaldi, who was standing by the far window. Grimaldi was staring directly at him, a birthday-morning grin lining his face.
“I see,” said Harris, trying to find the words. “I’m not exactly sure that’s what we talked about. It was all rather … over-the-top.”
The smile dipped momentarily. “Sure it was. But there’s good over-the- top, and there’s bad over-the-top. Which one do you mean, Nige?”
“The one that says that that advertisement won’t be seen by anyone outside this office.” Harris sensed a slight elevation in the tension of the room. “Exactly how I feel, Mr. Grimaldi? What I just saw was insipid, mawkish, and says nothing about the alliance.”
“Don’t underestimate insipid and mawkish,” said Grimaldi, the first hint of something savvier beneath the veneer of the hip salesman. “They sell well.”
“I’m sure they do, but I don’t believe we’re selling anything. We want to inspire. There’s a considerable difference there. Might I ask what happened to the segments I filmed? I thought they made my position quite clear.”
“Fair enough.” Grimaldi nodded to one of his associates. “Let’s call that a first stab.” Again the lights dimmed. The second promo.
The image on the screen this time was far less polished, the angle of the camera slightly skewed. A young man, maybe in his mid-thirties, sat on a park bench, elbows on knees, chin propped on his hands. The camera shifted around him several times, close-up, then back, more odd angles, before it stopped on a medium shot. The man seemed to be looking at something in the distance, but the camera stayed on him. The voice-over began, this one without the husky pomp.
“Time was when I wasn’t sure what to expect for his future.”
A quick cut to a group of boys playing in the park, again choppy angles, long and short shots interspersed in rapid sequence.
“I thought about the usual stuff, high school, college. Get himself a job. And that one day he’d be out here, watching his boy, wondering the same things. The same endless cycle. And I had to ask myself, Is that all I can give him?”
The man stood and began to walk toward the boys. He stopped by a tree and watched as his son tore around with the ball, the other boys giving chase. The man smiled.
“Not by a long shot.”
The man moved out from under the tree, his son catching sight of him, tossing the ball back into the melee before racing up to his father’s side. As the man knelt down to straighten his son’s jacket, the voice-over continued.
“If you’ve got some of those same questions, think about the Faith Alliance. I did. It’s where we can make their future together.”
The shot traced up to the sky, then back down, now the vista a wide beach, a far shot of Harris walking, pants rolled up to the ankles, his own two boys scampering in the tide just ahead of him. The camera moved in.
“I’m Nigel Harris, director of the Faith Alliance. If you’re in need of something to put genuine meaning into your life, and the life of your family, consider joining us.”
The camera followed Harris’s glance to his boys.
“It’s their future. Don’t deny them a personal relationship with faith.”
The camera pulled back as Harris darted over to his sons and began to splash water at them; they, in turn, splashed back.
Fade to black and the words “The Faith Alliance. Our bridge to the next millennium.”
Fade-out.
The lights came up.
Grimaldi remained by the window. “I told you insipid and mawkish sell,” he said as he moved back to his chair. “It’s just how you package them.”
Harris turned to him as he sat. It was only then that he realized how clever Grimaldi had been. The whole morning had been a prelude to this moment, the mindless jargon bandied about at lunch, the first promo. All designed to let this moment have its full effect. Harris now understood why Grimaldi had the reputation he did.
“Yes, I can see that,” he answered.
“So this one’s more to your liking, Colonel Harris?”
“Call me Nige.” He smiled. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Good. Then you’re going to love this next one.”
Everything had quieted down by dinner. They had taken the body to a small house at the end of the village, the home of the local hohxa. There, it would be bathed and cleaned, prepared for burial according to strict Muslim custom, Pearse’s last rites washed away with the rest of the worldly taint on the boy’s soul. They had managed to keep Ivo preoccupied during the somber processional to the hohxa’s house, the other children of the village not so fortunate, essential participants in the ancient ritual. Pearse hadn’t asked; Mendravic wouldn’t have been able to explain.
The leader of the failed raid continued to ignore Pearse throughout the meal, no doubt silently blaming him for the morning’s debacle. Catholic priest. Catholic church. To him, they were one and the same. Skewed logic aside, he did manage to show a considerable warmth to Ivo and Petra, doing his best to keep the dinner conversation lively, the day’s tragedy left for another time. Pearse kept quiet, happy to watch the interaction.
What quickly became clear was just how smart a little boy Ivo really was. Polite to the end, he showed no hesitation in making his points, less patience for anyone who treated him like a child. And always with something of Petra’s swagger in the way he handled his confrontations. In fact, more often than not, it was Petra herself who was on the receiving end.
“That’s not true, Mommy,” he said. “Why should we care about the Serbs when they don’t care about us?” There was always a hint of the parrot in what he said, little phrases that he’d heard from Salko or his mother-mangled just a bit-but always injected at just the right moment. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, but how he said it that allowed his cleverness to shine through. Even when Petra was on the defensive, Pearse sensed her absolute pleasure in Ivo’s little jabs.
“Well, maybe that’s why we should worry about them even more,” she answered.
Somewhere along the way, he’d busied himself with a wedge of bread, rolling pieces of it into tiny balls. Preoccupied or not, Ivo managed to keep up. “No, because Salko said that’s what they want. And we’d be giving them what they want, and we can’t do that.”
“Like what?” she pressed, the rest of the table watching as the little boy kept his eyes fixed on his handiwork, every once in a while a bread ball popping into his mouth.