A Sorority of Angels Read online

  Tao laughed easily and Kim covered her mouth when laughing heartily, a gesture to prevent turning hysterical. Kim was educated, but I sensed a poverty stricken and difficult background. Kim wasn’t bred like Pilar. She strived to teach herself, having an air of dignity and pride that evoked a mystical Far Eastern beauty to captivate. It worked on me.

  They wanted to know how I earned my living in this great country and I told them. I impressed.

  Laura’s attention shifted to the front door.

  Alise arrived alone.

  “Come, Adam. I want you to meet Alise.”

  Alise hung her tan raincoat in the closet then rushed into the kitchen to help Shaba.

  As I entered behind Laura, I could hear Shaba mutter, “…and I expected no less.”

  Someone upset Alise. When she saw Laura then me, she smiled and perked up.

  Alise stood about five-foot-six with long dark hair and dark eyes and exquisite Middle East features. I loved her high cheekbones. Introductions exchanged; delighted to meet me, and friendly, but she ushered us out.

  “Come on you two, out.” Her arms created sweeping motions. “Shaba and I share the work detail tonight. We’ll join you soon.”

  Laura turned to me. “I’ll stay and help. You go ahead, catch up to you in a few.”

  I joined two groups and chatted.

  Laura, Shaba, Alise, and Pilar reviewed and divided their guest list, only women. During the evening, they each managed to talk privately to their assigned countries. In peripheral vision, I could see Laura trying to convince the woman from South Africa. Alise conversed with Asmir from India. Shaba talked to Jasmine from Algeria, her hands punctuated air. Pilar was leaving a group.

  I assumed recruiting others to join their group.

  My curiosity elevated after Laura’s fourth. I asked about her sidebar talks with those on her list.

  “We caught up on gossip. Almost done. Why? Did you miss me?”

  “I didn’t come here to be alone.”

  “Patience for a few more minutes. Go talk to Pilar and cheer her up. She congratulated me before on how impressive and handsome you are.”

  “You take me for granted when you throw me to Pilar.”

  She lifted on toes and whispered in my ear, “If you don’t behave, I’ll get a headache later.”

  Excuse the pun but Laura knew how to hit below the belt.

  She left me, party progressed, buffet tasted exquisite. When finished gorging, I homed in on Pilar, who no longer needed cheering up. Music, good company, and white wine banished sadness. Her eyes sparkled. After conversation for a short while about her children, we joined Kim and Tao Soom.

  Conversations and din increased; guests friendlier with camaraderie’s warmth; several men looked tipsy, glassy eyed.

  Sounds of an Ude started followed by bongo drums – live entertainment from the Middle East. All gathered in a semicircle around two musicians. The exotic sound stimulated; bodies forced to sway.

  Laura returned and joined the semicircle, swaying; crowd and we clapped in rhythm. I spotted Shaba heading for Alise. They left for the bedroom, talking. Alise entered the room. Shaba closed the door and approached the gathering as she clapped and swayed. When the music ended, Shaba hollered cutting applause.

  “Quiet please! Hold it!” Her arms lifted emphasizing silence then imitating the voice and movements of a carnival barker. “Ladies and gentlemen. Hear ye! Hear ye! Intermission time. Get a fresh drink or whatever food you can find and come back and sit. Okay? Back in ten minutes. We have a special treat for you.” Many dispersed.

  Ten minutes later Shaba returned. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!” roared the crowd.

  “All right! Move back. We need room.” The man with the Ude waited, ready. Bongo man held a tambourine. Shaba nodded to them and a Middle Eastern rhythm began. “Ladies, hold on to your man’s eyeballs because right here direct from the Middle East by way of Damascus, the vivacious runaway slave girl from the harem…Alise!”

  Music started.

  From the bedroom drifted the sound of zills, small brass cymbals worn on the exotic dancer’s fingers. The door opened and Alise appeared in a belly dance outfit with veils vibrating to the music; dressed in colored veils and embroidered gold coins; whirling and curling around the floor dispensing sultry glances. She wore a jeweled and spangled girdle and an attached blue veil skirt with numerous crystals, hair long and straight. The guests gaped, transfixed, open mouthed watching a talented performer.

  Her arms rippled as a snake, a graceful figure, fluid and sensuous.

  She approached me as I sat Indian style on the floor in front, a devilish grin in her eyes. I studied her, awed as her body trembled towards me, artistic. I didn’t know where to look first. She smiled at Laura as if asking for permission to harass me then danced before me thrusting hips and shivering her belly as Laura urged her on.

  Alise draped her veil over my head and gyrated about an inch or two from my face, cymbals zinging in my ears.

  A glassy eyed wise guy yelled out, “Close your mouth!” and all laughed.

  The gallery shouted for me to get up. Amidst shrills and howls Laura encouraged me with nudges.

  Alise retreated, zills summoned me. Laura urged me on again. Then Alise started the artistic act of unveiling accentuating basic movements of the dance. She returned to me and flirted again. The last martini must have kicked in because I stood amidst applause and encouragement. I removed my jacket and passed it to Laura.

  I tried to quiver and gyrate with Alise, hands overhead, fingers snapping. We stood toe-to-toe. She picked up speed, muscles moved faster. I gyrated, awkward but good doing my own thing. Alise danced around me, artistic, I, close to burlesque, worse.

  Laura nearly doubled over from laughter.

  The crowd loved me.

  You would have been proud of me.

  Alise glided in front of me and her hands slithered around my body and head, her body close, tempting without touching. She stared into my eyes, smiling, teasing. Then she broke away spinning and dancing faster as music tempo increased, finished with me, discarded.

  I sat to applause, a hero.

  Alise danced, veils floating, gliding on bare feet a vision of pure grace. When Alise ended the dance, noise qualified Shaba and Alise for eviction.

  Laura stayed at my side the remainder of the evening. Nothing diverted her from me. Shaba joined Pilar and Kim. They switched to the balcony although air turned brisk. Alise joined them. Their conversation lasted at least fifteen minutes. Tao waited inside enjoying a martini with me.

  I call it a spectacular social. I had to agree Laura and friends came up with an innovative idea based on the international foods and culture theme, a lure to attract more women to their group.

  By the way, Laura didn’t get a headache.

  Seven women from the Shaba/Alise international social gathered at six o’clock that next Thursday at Laura’s apartment to meet then go out to dinner, a procedure for an ongoing friendship. They agreed to the purpose of their new coalition and would eventually add prospects; several committed to participate, but at another time. Successive meetings for the seven would include continuing discussions and strategies to help towards ending poverty, hunger, and advocating peace.

  They all acknowledged reality overwhelmed success – to try to make inroads without timetables, no evaluations. Effort was expected, but failure anticipated; decent women with honorable motives to initiate from their influential positions, to perform to the best of their ability, within their capability, to utilize persuasive powers, connections, logic, common sense, personal pleas, anything to make a difference no matter how small.

  Laura was prepared, loaded with facts.

  She presented a synopsis of social and political policies and problems of the countries present.

  Towards meeting’s end, Laura reached for a red plastic shopping bag.

  “As in most organizations with goals, it’s important to have a
unity symbol, a symbol to remind us of our commitment to humanity and to each other, to help give us strength and a reaffirmation when doubt lingers – a camaraderie symbol as a sorority pin.” She removed seven blue velvet jewelry cases from the bag and passed them out. “Don’t open them yet.” Finished distributing, she opened hers.

  Inside displayed a necklace: a gold chain holding a gold heart about an inch in size, on the heart a raised outline of angel wings. On the left side, a heel with an arrow in it, a beautiful piece of jewelry. As Laura walked among them, their expressions indicated approval.

  “This is the Achilles Heart symbol of our newborn international sorority. The heart and angel wings represent love, caring, and strength. The heel and arrow symbolize weakness, a man’s weakness. Why a man? Because, unfortunately, they still run the world. If unfamiliar with the ten-year Trojan War and Homer’s Iliad, Achilles was a mighty Greek warrior defeated only through his heel, his weakness. When you open, put on the Achilles Heart. I ask that you stand one by one and repeat this vow – This is the symbol of my commitment within my capabilities for humanity. Shaba, let’s start with you.”

  Shaba stood first. Then Pilar, Alise, Jasmine, Asmir, and Kim followed then Laura.

  That is how this sorority, these seven angels of hunger and poverty began with commendable missions and sincere and honorable intentions.

  What they encountered, what happened to each is almost unbelievable.

  This story can unfold in various ways.

  I could continue with what happened when Laura came to Washington to involve me, or begin with one of the others.

  Let’s save me for later and continue with Pilar.

  BOOK OF PILAR

  “If all men were just, there would be no need of valor.”

  Agesilaus [444 - 400 BC]

  Two weeks after the initial meeting –

  The year in New York had been lonely for Pilar deLorenzo. With newfound friends, the past few weeks filled with interest and stimulation, a member of a sorority, a chance for companionship and conversation with women of common interest and work – more important, six new friends.

  For Pilar, the past month settled mire and pall of tragedy, beginning to feel initial stages of independence.

  Pilar married Carlos when attending Buenos Aires University and two years after her Miss Argentina title. A strong, dominant, wealthy but gentle father protected her and catered to every whim. Her mother died of leukemia when Pilar was six, an only child and pride and joy in her father’s life. Pilar regretted he died the year before she won the Miss Argentina title. Then, also, tragedy of losing a vital person in her life affected her. Then the title came, and diversion.

  Then she met Carlos, to give her life. She devoted to Carlos, five years older, finding in him many characteristics lost with her father’s passing.

  With strong male authority, Pilar never had a need except for the period between her father and Carlos to think independently. Her college education programmed her future for the next three years. Her title’s schedule forced her to leave school for a year. The decision to marry Carlos was her first major independent decision.

  She loved Carlos.

  He fulfilled every need and desire.

  His loss left a void she felt incapable bridging, wouldn’t allow herself to cross the bridge.

  Associating with Laura and the others meant a leap forward towards closing the gap, a foothold on independent action. The Achilles Heart necklace turned into an important accessory, a crutch. When her thinking drifted negative, she found comfort by holding and rubbing the heart and raised heel.

  Pilar almost emerged from grief. On the horizon waited the new Pilar deLorenzo – a distance to travel to get there.

  Children tempered her loneliness, devoted to them keeping busy and diverted with their constant needs and demands. She lived absent friends, a date, and a lover. She suppressed any need to love a man again. People at work assumed her a cold person, snobbish.

  She wore her grief and attitude with every change of clothing.

  Ambassador Estaban acted fatherly. The President entrusted her in his care. Estaban extended many invitations to attend United Nations functions with him and his wife; invitations for dinner at his home; to other socials. Pilar refused them all using her children as excuse.

  Her housekeeper, Esmeralda, proved invaluable. She hastened the children – Andres, Sorel, and Roberto – to school in the morning and cared for them after school, all homework completed before Pilar arrived home.

  Esmeralda, a longtime member of Pilar’s family, joined Pilar and Carlos after their first child, Andres, was born. She raised Pilar and raises her children. Their relationship exceeded employer/employee. Esmeralda was family. In her sixties, short, and slightly plump, she expanded a lifetime with Pilar’s family. Pilar benefited from Esmeralda’s energies, treating Pilar as a daughter.

  Pilar’s children referred to her as Aunt Esmeralda, a strict disciplinarian endowed with softness and love for them. Esmeralda lacked formal education but wise and understanding that Pilar was their mother. She never allowed the children to forget that and careful never to overrule Pilar in a disciplinary action. Esmeralda and Pilar shared mutual respect.

  Esmeralda understood Pilar’s grief. She grieved with her at first, as a mother then never lingered on the past’s tragedies. Think of the good times served as her motto. She viewed Pilar like a sentry as she watched her deteriorate socially, trying often in vain to offer motherly advice because in her heart Pilar remained the child she raised.

  As the jet headed for (Ezeiza) Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires, Pilar grew impatient to get there, to put the long trip behind.

  Buenos Aires was home.

  Argentina was home.

  Pilar escaped tragedy; ran to minimize the aftermath; wrestled to accept the price she paid for Argentina’s struggle to change to a new democracy that made her a widow; feeling she made the ultimate sacrifice; deprived of the man she loved; her children deprived of their father. Her agony cemented permanently in that democratic cornerstone.

  Pilar refused to accept her fate of suffering, asking herself a thousand times – “Why me? Was making Argentina a better country worth my suffering and sacrifice?”

  Only her national pride offered solace, justification for sacrifice.

  A year passed.

  How would she find things?

  How would she feel? Would she return to New York?

  What could keep her in Argentina?

  How was Carlos’s family, his older sister, Marisa and younger brother, Tomayo?

  Tomayo pleaded for her to stay and wanted to care for her and the children.

  How was Uncle Rafael, the President?

  As she headed closer to Argentina, memories widened as her life, family, friends, and places surged in review. New York slowly dissolved into yesterday. Argentina had been yesterday, now tomorrow.

  Everything evolved to a time for looking ahead, for expectation, to stand proud and independent, a time to refurbish her attitudes and thoughts, and a time to remember, a time to go home.

  Buenos Aires stretched out beneath her, a sprawling city of over three million citizens. Its Greater Metropolitan Area with over thirteen million people in a country of over forty million, 95% descended from Spanish, Italian, and other European immigrants; a panoramic city sweeping southwest from Rio de la Plata towards the fertile pampas that extended five hundred miles to the Andes; resembling capitals of Western Europe.

  Her family being last to deplane, Pilar wondered if her uncertainty caused the delay. The plane held the last link to yesterday.

  By the time a porter assembled their luggage and a perfunctory Customs check due to her diplomatic status, other passengers dispersed, some for waiting visitors. Pilar felt no hurry, notifying no one of her arrival or schedule although, without her knowledge, Ambassador Estaban sent specifics to her uncle.

  Her return should be insignificant with no one th
ere to greet her family.

  At the other end of Customs, a man waved frantic for their attention. Andres noticed and thought he recognized him. He tugged at Pilar’s arm.

  “Mother, isn’t that Uncle Tomayo?”

  Pilar turned alert, excited.

  “Where?”

  Pilar saw him. Her face lit with excitement banishing fears, lifted on toes, and waved back with enthusiasm as tears filled her eyes. Home felt more sensitive than realized.

  Tomayo’s waves increased tempo knowing Pilar saw him.

  An expressionless man stood apart from Tomayo; remaining visitors readied to leave the waiting area.

  When they cleared Customs, Esmeralda gathered the children. Pilar wiped traces of happy tears and strode faster towards Tomayo with a broad smile, flung into his arms, and kissed him embracing hard.

  “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “I thought you missed the plane.”

  The lump in his throat stilled his tongue; stepped back to look at her, holding her hands. She looked at him the same. The joy of meeting overwhelmed. Tomayo looked over her shoulder to the children then hugged and kissed each. He greeted Esmeralda.

  The other man, in his late fifties, wore a double-breasted gray striped suit with a red patterned silk tie and rimless glasses. He approached Pilar.

  “Mrs. deLorenzo?”

  Pilar turned to the voice with an expression of no recognition; never saw him before. “Yes?”

  “Welcome back to Argentina.” He clicked his heels and bowed. “I extend to you President Rafael deLorenzo’s compliments. I am Klaus Steinerman his senior advisor.”

  She heard about him without forming an opinion of the man, and wondered how he knew of her arrival.

  “Thank you for being here.”

  She extended her hand. He shook it politely once.

  “I regret your uncle’s absence. He meets with foreign dignitaries.”

  “I can appreciate that. How is he?”

  “Splendid, in excellent health. He would like to know if you are going to your apartment or to a hotel if staying in Buenos Aires.”