Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [16]
He’s been gone for almost a decade, but I wonder what he would think about this trip. I can see him leaning back in the brown leather chair in his office, his index finger tapping the armrest. He would look at me for a while, then ask a simple question. Something like, “Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?” Reasons were important to the man. He was as concerned with motivations as he was with results. He was fond of saying that doing something extraordinary for the wrong reason was worse than doing nothing. Of course, he had firmly established opinions concerning what constituted a right reason. Everything he did was filtered through the lens of his religious upbringing. If the end result, as he saw it, did not mesh with his faith, then it shouldn’t be done. That’s it. No room for argument. If nothing else, knowing my father’s conviction made me think long and hard before I answered any question he asked. I probably have him to thank for my interest in Greek philosophy, especially Aristotle’s treatises on logic. In this case, provided my answer was satisfactory, a gleam would have appeared in his eyes as he imagined the possibilities for adventure that a trip like this promised. That’s another one of the gifts my dad gave me: a sense of adventure, a need to explore. Mr. Reese called it curiosity.
The man snoring in the seat next to me shifts position and slumps closer and I can smell the salt and vinegar potato chips on his breath. An exploration of the man’s culinary tastes is not the sort of adventure I have in mind and I give him a shove sufficient to send him invading the personal space of the unfortunate Korean gentleman in the aisle seat. The latter gives me a helpless look before shifting his shoulder so that the sleeping man is forced to perform some unconscious straightening maneuver or face the prospect of toppling over and testing the integrity of the seat belt. With a last hearty snort, the man achieves a precarious balance within the boundaries of the invisible walls rising up from his armrests. My Korean companion and I watch for a few seconds, avoiding each other’s eyes, but ready for a resumption of the human Ping-Pong game that is international air travel.
I’m a bit surprised at the demographics of the flight, because—granting that it has been several years since my last trip to this part of the world—I cannot remember an instance prior to this one when the passenger profile was not ninety percent Latin American to ten percent white tourist. There are at least six American businessmen in the first-class section of the 767, along with a number of the wealthier tourists. I’ve also counted at least half a dozen Asians, a large number of North Americans of more modest means, a smattering of Europeans of dubious origin, and one young couple sitting in the row behind me who speak Arabic in quiet voices. I’ve grasped enough of the hushed conversation to know that they’re recently married and have already been to Paris and New York. The flight reminds me that much has changed since I was here last, and that Venezuela—or at least Caracas—has made impressive progress toward becoming a modern city. This is a caution to remain alert, and to realize it might take some time to clear the cobwebs from a long-unused portion of my skill set.
I console myself with the knowledge that what I’m doing here amounts to little more than advanced library work—even if Gordon’s research, exhaustive to the point of obsession, makes a compelling case. Maps, symbols, ancient texts—all of it seeming to form a blurry multimillennial snapshot of something with great significance. It’s the most intriguing prospect I’ve ever