Chapter Twelve: He is Risen
In Rome on June 1 of 1991, Pope John Paul II ordained 60 priests to serve in the elite Legion of Christ. Sixteen were from the Cadre of the Elite, and twenty-four-year-old Argo Malle was one of that cadre, which came to be called the Cadre of Vatican Legionaries. The slight of frame boy with black curly hair and bright white teeth from Bensonhurst, the Rutgers summa graduate, and the wunderkind of the Legion seminary in Connecticut, had completed his seminary training in the Cadre of Vatican Legionaries and distinguished himself once again as the most gifted of the gifted.
The crowning achievement of Argo’s two-year study in Rome was receiving the hands of His Holiness at his ordination while becoming the first to wear the Cross of the Cadre at his ordination in St. Peter’s Basilica. Designed by a Legionary who had been a commercial artist before enlisting, the cross was given to that Cadre graduate who most closely approached the essence of a Legionary. Forged in two pieces of stainless steel with oblong cutouts and a three-carat star sapphire at the center, the five-inch cross would become an integral part of Argo’s clerical dress. Inscribed on the back behind the sapphire was “Argo Malle, L.C.”
INSERT ILLUSTRATION
More than distinguishing him from the sixteen members of the cadre, that crucifix was for Argo palpable reminder of the Christ-like sacrifice he had made over the past four years as a seminarian. While the two years at the Vatican seminary was not so demanding or nearly so isolating as the two in Cheshire, Argo felt keenly the loss of family and familiar surroundings. Only twice in two years was Argo able to return to the United States, and the last time was for an interview at Cal Tech for their doctoral program in biochemistry. The year before, when he visited the Machiarolla’s and Frederic’s, Willow was spending her junior year abroad in England.
The Italian seminary was more theoretical and humanistic than he thought it might be, and while that entertained the intellect it seemed to forestall the practical application that would be necessary once out of the cloisters. Exactly what would be expected of a Legionary doing research and teaching science classes? How would his efforts differ, for example, from that of a Jesuit or Vincentian? Would he become part of the planned Cheshire, Connecticut Legion of Christ University or would he be assigned to a secular university in the United States? The members of the Cadre of Vatican Legionaries were told that their services might be required at Legion headquarters in Rome; would Argo’s? None of the answers to these questions was suggested by the administrators, and Argo thought it best not to ask lest it appear he had undue concern about how the Legion intended to use him. A Legionary, well-tutored in the spirit of charism, dedicated himself totally to service of the pope, the Legion, and ultimately the world.
It was fortunate for Argo that his spiritual advisor recommended him for graduate study in the United States; others of the cadre who had expected to go on to advanced academic study were deployed in other ways. Eight were returned to their countries, especially in South America and Africa, to found parish schools; two were sent to diocesan offices for administrative duties; and three, all Italian, were retained by the Legion to study international law and finances. Only two, one from Ireland and one from England, were sent for graduate study in the humanities. Argo, the only American in the cadre, was also the only one of the sixteen who was to study in the sciences.
The Cadre of Vatican Legionaries while most strict was less so than other Legion seminaries. Cadre seminarians were taken on tour of Vatican City and the churches of Rome as part of their history curriculum, and they could, in their limited free time, ask for permission to tour on their own. For Argo, direct and private exposure to the great art and architecture of the Middle Ages and Renaissance was a revelation. He learned to appreciate the truly remarkable work of men who lived centuries before him, to appreciate their intellects and their vision. From Giotto to Raphael and Bernini to Michelangelo, Argo learned how parochial his education had been. Perhaps being a New Yorker, being associated with a well-publicized sub-culture, and having graduated from a large secular university provided Argo with the notion that he had reached a level of sophistication few could match. However, his sophistication was grounded firmly in the 20th Century and totally in the Northeastern United States. The culture of Rome reached back two thousand years and across the continents, and the Roman Church was the repository of that culture.
At one end of the Piazza del Popolo stood the celebrated Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, and on Argo’s first foray alone in Rome he stood in front of Caravaggio’s The Crucifixion of St. Peter. Struck by the bold naturalism of the 400-year-old painting, Argo realized that Rembrandt had a precursor. Caravaggio had been only a name until that day, but the power of the crucifiers and vibrancy of form made the name come to life. When Argo saw the tenderness and adoration depicted in Caravaggio’s The Madonna of Loreto, he became a devotee of the Milanese artist.[1]
A young artist, sitting behind his easel copying The Crucifixion, noticed Argo’s interest and said in Italian, “It’s the light, Father; that’s what’s so captivating. I’m using cobalt, but it’s not right; he did something to it.” Argo listened to the bearded throw-back to the beat generation explain the difficulty of trying to match the master. He wore sandals and a beret spattered with paint, and his jeans and long sleeved polo shirt could have been a palette. Argo thought that beatniks been replaced fifty or sixty years before by hippies, many of whom probably placed their easels in the same spot, in the same room, and in front of the same painting, each thinking he was unique in his eschewal of the norm.
The artist, who seemed older than he had first appeared, told Argo where he could find other Caravaggios in Rome. In his best Italian Argo thanked him for the leads and turned to go. “Say hello to Clinton,” called the neo-beatnik after him.
At the Galleria Borghese Argo saw the David with the Head of Goliath, even more powerful and frightening to Argo than The Crucifixion. The youthful David with serene equanimity held the head of the grotesque giant by the hair in one hand and wielded a sword in the other. The incongruity was chilling. How could such a frail youth commit so horrific an act and be so complacent? Then Argo felt a tingle in his neck when he realized that he could.
It was not only the grand silence of Italian art that came to be part of Argo but also their folk music. He had always appreciated their classical music, but before his stay in Rome he had not heard their rich popular music sung often with operatic intensity. Largely Neapolitan and often composed by unknown writers, the songs were mostly love songs, lush and often tragic. Like the English and Italian sonnets of the 16th Century, these ballads were frequently about unrequited love, a tenor crying out for the pain of loss.
Argo first heard this music in the small basement commissary where a television that received only one station and a dual cassette player sat against a wall. Smoke-filled and dimly lit, the room was at once a lunchroom and recreation area for the seminarians. A ping-pong table, sometimes used for meals when it got crowded, sat at one end of the room and the kitchen at the other with folding tables and chairs in the middle. One of the Italian novitiates donated his cassette collection to the order and would often play his tapes, always after asking permission from any others in the room.
It had rained for three days, and on this Sunday in April Argo had not been assigned to assist at services as deacons often were. He would be free for the rest of the day for study and private prayer, but Argo could not bring himself to do either. He left his dormitory at the Via del Gianicolo under an umbrella and made his way around large puddles on the ancient sidewalk toward St. Peter’s Square. The wind was strong, and the dark gray sky suggested there would be no let up in the rain. Argo, dressed only in his cassock, felt as chill and dark as the day. The wind was gusting from the south, and he had to lower the umbrella to keep the wind from turning it inside out. By the time he had reached the portico of St. Peter’s, his pants were wet and his shoes squeaked. Argo watched the faithful fight the wind and rain as they made their way up the stairs to the cathedral for the eleven o’clock mass.
The plaza was more crowded than it had been, and that meant the tourist season had begun. Most of the visitors were couples huddled closely under one umbrella, and Argo wondered how many were Americans on vacation. A sudden burst of wind everted the umbrella of a young couple, and as the man reached up to right it, it blew from his hands sailing across the plaza. She laughed and impulsively planted a kiss on his cheek before they ran the rest of the way, hand in hand, up the stairs toward where Argo stood watching them. They were wet and they were in love, and Argo’s heart went out to them.
“Here,” said Argo in Italian offering them his umbrella as they approached him out of the rain. She was wearing a black kerchief, and that meant she was a native.
“No thank you, Father,” said the young man in English. “It will stop by the time we go out.” Argo smiled realizing that it would not matter to the lovers whether it did or not.
“Grazia, Father,” said the young woman with a wonderful smile that reached Argo to his core.
As heart-warming as the couple was, they made Argo feel even colder inside than he had. Three years had passed since he held Willow’s hand along Sheepshead Bay, and now he could barely remember all the features of the face which had captivated him and which now had appeared to him regularly through the dim veil of pre sleep reverie. Had he gone to Latrobe with Benny Musso he would not have lost her; he could have seen her regularly, and they would have remained close. As Argo stared out through the rain across the plaza he saw the grotesque face of the Cheshire Cat mouth the word “propinquous.”
Argo put up his umbrella and walked slowly back home, damp, down, and doubtful.
It was after lunch, and the few men who had been in the commissary had left leaving Argo alone, as dark and dreary as the weather. Tomaso Solari, the seminarian with the tapes, left a Sergio Franchi tape playing, and Argo, who had not noticed it until then, began to listen to the tenor sing simple songs accompanied by powerful orchestral arrangements. Sergio Franchi, a tenor who had sung at La Scalla, had managed a rare crossover into popular music during the 1960’s. His good looks, beautiful voice, and strong command of English contributed to his success around the world, especially in the United States.
The song was as hauntingly beautiful as it was clutchingly sad, and as Argo paid closer attention to the Italian lyrics, tears welled up in his eyes. It was Argo singing to Willow, and she, sitting in her room alone, longed for him as much as he did for her. Eerily the song ended in English with the words, “God, how much I love you,” and immediately the cassette player stopped with a loud click that brought Argo back to the empty lunchroom. How ironic that a foreign song which sang to him ended in his own language and included God. It was for God that Argo was a world away from Willow.
Argo saw on the empty cassette case that the song was entitled “Dio, Como Ti Amo,” composer unknown. He rewound the tape to play the folk song again. It was not about unrequited love, but about lovers who were separated and how wonderful and special was their love. Argo could not translate two of the words, and some of the phrases did not work in English. After playing back the tape several times, he was able to transcribe on table napkins a very rough translation of the song that would distract him for days.
God, How Much I Love You
In the sky the clouds pass and go towards the sea
They seem like white ______ men wave as they greet our love.
God, how I love you!
It is not possible to have in my arms so much happiness
To kiss your lips that smell of wind
We two sweethearts like nobody else in the world.
God, how much I love you
I begin to cry.
In all my life I have not ever tried
A good thing beloved, a true good thing.
Who can stop the river that runs toward the sea?
Like the _____ in the sky that go toward the sun.
Who can change the love I have for you?
God, how much I love you!
At his desk and under an old gooseneck lamp, Argo flipped through his dictionary; however, as he worked on it he realized that without the music, the song was not nearly so expressive or moving. It was the combination of the rich tenor voice and soulful violins which added strength to the lyrics. The art lay in the combination of sound and sense, and to separate one from the other was to eviscerate the whole.
Argo waited until that night to return to the commissary to replay the tape. It would be necessary to fit English lyrics to the Italian, syllable by syllable, stress for stress. It was not unlike writing in iambic pentameter for Willow’s sonnet, and when he finished, it was possible to sing the song in English, perfectly set to the music as it was in Italian.
Dio, Como Ti Amo
Translated by Argo Malle
How much I love you!
Oh, how much I love you!
In the sky
As the great clouds fly past ---
As they reflect in the sea
They seem like white handkerchiefs
Waving at our great love.
God, how much I love you!
It is not possible
To have within my arms
So much happiness ---
To kiss your sweet lips
That taste like the fresh breeze ---
We are two lovers
Like no one else in the wide world.
God, how much I love you!
I just begin to cry.
In the whole of my poor life
I could never have had
Anything more lovely ---
Anyone more beloved!
Who can stop the mighty river
That rushes toward the great sea?
The swallows in the blue sky
That fly always to the bright sun?
Who can change this great love ---
The love I have for you?
God, how much I love you!
Oh, how much I love you!
God, how much I love you!
It took two hours of playing and replaying the song until he was satisfied that the lyrics he had written in English captured the meaning of the original and would precisely match the Italian. Argo had adapted a work of art, soulful and organic, which expressed in a way he could not the loss he felt for Willow.
As he lay in bed, the song playing in his mind, he decided he would somehow share with Willow the aching beauty of separated lovers. It was wrong, even stupid, but he was too weak to resist. While nothing could come from his passion, it was simply too frustrating not to give it vent. If she could hear the song and know what it said, Willow would know how he felt, and in that there would be some measure of relief.
He would need to get her a cassette tape of the song, and in his darkened room, Argo could see her open a package that held the cassette with the lyrics he had translated for her wrapped around it. Argo fell asleep knowing that he could never mail such a package to her lest her parents, who would never open her mail, ask her what she had received from her “stepbrother.”
It was three days before he saw Tomaso Solari in the dining room, and Argo asked if Solari had a blank cassette he might use to make a copy of the song.
“It is so beautiful I want to send it home to my family,” said Argo holding the cassette in his hand. However, there were no blank tapes of the twenty or so in the collection.
“Here,” said Solari, handing Argo a recorded tape. “I never play it. Just copy over it.”
Argo resisted but the Italian insisted. Solari popped the tape in the left drive, hit the record button, and then let the tape run.
“When it finishes,” said Solari, “put it in the right drive and your song in the left. You know how it works, no?”
Argo said he did.
“The Americans invent them and the Japanese make them,” said Solari with a warm smile, happy to help his first American friend.
“And Italians make the music,” Argo said flashing a thank you smile.
The tape complete, Argo wrapped it in the notebook leaf on which he had written the lyrics. He had planned to give it to her when he returned in two months, but when he visited the Frederic’s in late June, Willow had already left to spend her junior year abroad. Argo secreted the song in her room hoping that she would find it before her mother or one of her sisters.
Soon after Willow’s return to New Jersey, he received a greeting card with fishing boats on the front and no words on the inside. Willow had drawn a smiley face but with the mouth tuned down and a single tear on the right cheek.
l
The South Korean born Sun-fat Lee was Merlinck Professor of Biochemistry at Cal Tech, and Argo considered himself fortunate to have been accepted as one of his students. At the time, Dr. Lee and his research team were the only Americans working on stem cell collection and harvesting, a process recently started in Milan. Still only in its infancy, stem cell research held out the best hope, small as it was, to repair spinal cord injuries. To be associated with research of that nature under the direction of a man of Dr. Lee’s caliber was the height of good fortune --- from the outside looking in.
Unfortunately for Argo, Dr. Lee’s research was not done by his graduate students or “assistants” but only by his graduates and a staff of techs. Graduate student interaction with the Nobel Prize winning biochemist was limited to occasional lectures and less occasional laboratory demonstrations. For Argo, graduate student life differed little from his time at Rutgers: go to class, study texts, complete rote experiments, and take tests. At least at Rutgers he had a top-flight teacher; at Cal Tech he had a self-centered and controlling mentor whose every man for himself attitude was adopted by his staff and students.
At first Argo thought that if he completed his daily schoolwork early enough, he could spend after hours time in the lab, and in that way gain valuable first-hand experience. However, his presence in the lab was discouraged, and despite his excellent scholarship, Argo was unable to distinguish himself.
It was at the outset of his second semester that Argo decided that rather than be a supernumerary to Lee’s research team for four years, he would concentrate solely on his classes and his own research paper in order to graduate in three years. Cal Tech’s size and few required courses made it possible for Argo to take classes in the evening and during summers to complete the course requirement while at the same time work on his thesis. Argo soon learned, however, that only research helpful to Dr. Lee would be approved.
“My young Father Malle,” said the mercurial Dr. Lee with only the faintest Asian accent. “I have read your proposal and find it wanting in two areas.” Lee had found Argo in the lab working on a classroom project. There were three other students in the lab at the time, and their worked stopped as they listened.
Argo’s proposal, "The isolation, culturing and study of cell intrinsic development changes of neural crest stem cells from adult rats," was a departure from Lee’s work, which focused on human embryonic stem cells. However, Agro having read the little that was known about neural crest stem cells, the primitive cells that generate the peripheral nervous system, he was convinced that the study of these cells would be a useful contribution to the field. While not completely undifferentiated as are embryonic stem cells, the neural crest cells are very close to embryonic stem cells. Moreover, they were available from laboratory animals and would allow Agro to avoid the coming storm he foresaw in the ethics of human embryonic stem cell research. There would come a time, he believed, when religious leaders of all casts would demand of their governments that research on human embryos be halted. It was even likely that the U.S. government would withdraw Lee’s funding.
“First, the chance that they could be isolated from adult mammals is remote,” said Lee with disdain. “And second, there is little practical application to our work.” His voice was loud, his manner petulant, and he handed the proposal back to Argo without expecting a response.
“First,” said Argo to Lee who had already turned back to his office, “there is no proscription I know of that research cannot be used to test a hypothesis, even if it is unlikely to be affirmed.”
“There is no value if you fail in show untrue what the field believes about crest cells. Crest stem cells die off after forming the peripheral nervous system, as I’m sure you know,” snapped Lee, his face turned halfway round but not making eye contact with the angered Argo.
“Second,” continued Argo, “you have never stated that all research must be directly correlative to your particular interest, as I am sure you know.”
Dr. Lee walked back toward Argo, glowering at his student’s impertinence.
“This is the real world, Fr. Malle. Our research is paid for by taxpayers who expect results. If you want to do research that has no chance of amounting to anything, I suggest you invest your considerable talents at a lesser institution.”
“I thought I already was at a lesser institution,” said Argo, his eyes narrow and focused on his prey.”
“I see you have a quick wit,” said Lee with a smirk.
“It’s a shame you see only what’s in front of you. I would have hoped you would have been capable of seeing a bit more.”
“By that you mean that your research proposal is something I do not see, something beyond my ken.”
“Excellent, Dr. Lee,” said Argo mockingly.
“Arrogant fool,” exclaimed the professor marching back to his office.
Argo had little doubt the Church would oppose the use of embryonic stem cells on the basis that even an embryo that would never be implanted in a woman constituted a potential life, and the destruction of potential life, no matter the nobility of the cause, could not be accepted.[2] Agro was thoroughly familiar with the encyclical “On Life” that had been written years before, and there had, of course, been no mention of stem cells. It would likely be years, if ever, before an encyclical would be written condemning the research practice, but Argo thought it only a matter of time before Rome would speak out against the practice. He hoped that by then the science might improve enough to offer an alternative. Unfortunately, Argo was a bit ahead of his time for Dr. Lee, and so a topic for his dissertation would have to center on embryonic stem cells that would help move Lee’s research along. It was the only way he had any hope of receiving his doctorate from the prestigious Department of Biology of Cal Tech.
Sitting two tables away and witnessing Argo’s reaction to his rejection was Sun Suk Moon, a senior not selected for the one open position on Lee’s staff. That position was offered to Daniel Epstein whose grades were not quite so good as Miss Moon’s but whose attitude suggested he would be a better team member.
“I saw you yesterday in the lab,” said Sun Suk carrying her cafeteria tray to Argo’s table. As usual, Argo sat alone with a book or newspaper during meals, and perhaps because he was a priest, most people did not disturb him. “With Dr. Lee.” She placed her tray down on the opposite side of the table and took a seat.
They had been in only one class together, statistics, but had never spoken. She was petite, barely five feet tall, and tied her bright black hair back in a ponytail making her look closer to fifteen than twenty-five. She wore round rimless glasses, small sapphire earrings, and a fine gold crucifix.
“I’m Sun Suk Moon, and I know you’re Father Malle,” she said without a smile. She had large eyes and turned down lips making her look rather like a sad China doll.
“Argo,” he said flashing his bright white teeth.
“I hope you don’t mind; I just wanted to tell you how happy I was to see you stand up to Lee.”
“I’m afraid I was a bit intemperate, but it is nice of you to say.”
“It’s the truth,” she said looking right into his eyes. “He tried to embarrass you in front of others, and you didn’t take it. It’s about time he got it back, and from someone quiet like you. I bet that jarred his preserves.”
“I doubt it.”
“So what was your topic?”
“I wanted to look at neural crest stem cells’ sensitivity to instructive differentiation signals.”
“Why? What would you expect to find?” She placed her napkin in her lap and unwrapped her sandwich.
“There certainly are chemical signals which make stem cells generate other cells of the P.N.S. It would be a real contribution to know what those chemicals were, and that information might be helpful in understanding what makes the embryonic stem cell differentiate. I guess Lee doesn’t think so.”
Sun Suk shrugged, “I think it’s a creative approach. Have you read Braddock and Lynch?”
“Yes, that’s where I got the idea. But they just differentiated. They were concerned with the chemistry, not adaptation or substitution.”
“I know,” she said with a mouthful of turkey on rye. “They’re more taxonomic than anything else.”
“They are,” agreed Argo, sipping his coffee.
“I can’t drink the coffee here,” she said. “It’s the paper cups; you can taste it.”
“I’ve gotten used to it, cafeteria cuisine.” He took another sip to see if he could see what she meant. He could but he had become inured.
“In the seminary?”
Argo nodded. “And at Rutgers.”
“Is that where you’re from? You’re a long way from home.”
“I came because of Lee.”
“So did I. I went to Berkley. I’m from Southern California originally… how about you?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Rutgers isn’t in Brooklyn, is it?”
“New Brunswick, New Jersey. I moved to New Jersey.”
“And the seminary?”
“Connecticut first, then Rome.”
“Rome?” she said with surprise. “How did you get there?”
“They sent me from Connecticut after my second year. They couldn’t take me any longer.”
Sun Suk laughed for the first time, and her little round face lit up. “No, really, why did they send you to Rome?”
“They had a program, the Legion of Christ, which is my order. It was an international group. They had to send someone.”
“Is that what the LC after your name means? I saw it on the class register in statistics.”
“Yes. Have you ever heard of it?”
“No,” she said regretfully. “I’m not much of a Catholic, I guess.”
“I never did either until just before I joined. It’s a relatively new order --- like the Jesuits in some ways.”
“Is that a cross of the Legion of Christ?”
Argo quickly looked down at it before answering. “Yes, it is. They call it the Cross of the Cadre. Actually it was given to me by Pope John Paul II at my ordination.”
“You must be very proud,” she said, truly impressed. “It’s striking. Is that a sapphire?” she asked subconsciously touching an earring.
“It is,” he said raising it up from his chest. “It’s stainless steel and made especially for the ordination … to celebrate the ordination of the Cadre of Legionaries by the Pope.”
“So all Legionaries get a cross at ordination?”
“No, just this one was made.”
“And you got it? Wow, I’m impressed.” Her eyes wide open and fixed on his.
“I was very fortunate,” said Argo with as much modesty as he could muster. Argo sensed she was appealing to his male ego but liked it just the same.
l
Students of high academic achievement assume they are superior to lesser students, and nothing in education disabuses them of that notion. Students compete for grades, which lead to grade point averages, which offer a quantifiable measure of success. It is not until after the artificiality of schoolroom competition do top students learn that their prior success is no guarantee that the students they had topped will not in the real world surpass them.
However, until this realization, the best students tend to respect only others like themselves in the way the very wealthy or the very beautiful do. Now if a top student is also handsome, he becomes even more respected, at least by members of the opposite sex. (The opposite is true among members of the same sex.) If that top student who is handsome is also unavailable, that student becomes most attractive.
And so it was with Sun Suk Moon and her new friend, whom she dubbed the Priest from the East. It was not her intention to seduce the brilliant and handsome cleric, but that is what she did. Of course, it might be said that Argo in the same way seduced her.
Her father, who had emigrated from Seoul as a youth, ran a successful software company. Sun Suk, whose mother was a physician’s assistant, inherited her father’s quantitative skills, and started out as a math major at UC Berkley. When she decided that microbiology and not mathematics would earn her more money, she focused her academic talent on a more practical discipline.
Sun Suk had a photographic memory that was largely responsible for her straight A’s. However, it was not only memory at which the California girl excelled. In statistics, the branch of mathematics necessary in the evaluation of clinical studies, she also was excellent. Psychometricians would define hers as a flexible intellect; everyone else defined it as genius.
“It doesn’t last long, but for awhile I can recall a lot of detail --- almost all of what I read. But I have to concentrate,” she said as she demonstrated her talent by reading an article from The New York Times magazine and answering correctly all of the minutia on which Argo quizzed her. They were in her off campus apartment at her kitchen table.
“A gift for sure,” he said, picking up a notebook of hers which lay on the table. What he did not say was that he had much the same talent, and while he admired her intellect, there were two parts of Sun Suk that most fascinated Argo. Her dark eyes were set far apart which made her look like a doll, and her fingers were as small and as delicate as a child’s. When she wrote, her tiny fingers wrapped around a Bic as if it were a large Sharpie. The characters she wrote were small and perfectly drawn with speed that seemed twice his own.
“And your notes are impossibly neat. Your handwriting is the best I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I remember in class how quickly you wrote --- like a supercharged typewriter.”
Sun Suk smirked. “So after you see my mental ability you are most impressed by my handwriting? Nice!”
“Er, that would be ‘more impressed’ because you are comparing two things: mental ability and handwriting. We use ‘most’ for more than two.” Argo’s eyes were gleaming but he managed not to smile.
“So you’ve mastered 8th grade English.”
“Pity you haven’t.” Argo could not keep a straight face, and his boyish smile touched Sun Suk.
“I have,” she said with her own smile, warm and cherubic. “I was just testing you.”
“And how did I do?”
“Better than you did on your proposal,” she said taking a folder from the briefcase which sat on the side of her chair. Argo was there to examine a research proposal Sun Suk had made along with the one she had actually completed. Both had been approved, and she chose the more difficult one because she thought it might improve her chances of being selected for Lee’s staff.
“This one is a proven winner, if you’re interested,” she said handing Argo the folder. In it was a stapled three-page document with a cover page on which was typed, "Using dorsal root ganglia (DRG) which serve in diverse sensory modalities including pain, touch, and body position, we will explore the transcription factors that control the cutaneous sensory afferent fibers."
He flipped through the proposal and without looking up said, “They do, don’t they?”
“Well I guess so, but there’s more to it. Even Bundenthal at MIT just touched on it.”
“Well I am interested,” he said, sensing that the work was doable in a short time. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Why should I? I’m not going to be working here. I have my defense in June and I’m out of here. I don’t care what they do or don’t do. I’ve got to find a job.” She spoke with an edge that Argo found incongruous given her little girl looks, and it was a bit off putting. However, her anger and disappointment at not being chosen was understandable.
“Given the quality of your work, Sun Suk, why do you think you didn’t get the position?”
“Who knows?” she said with a shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t want another woman.”
“Or a Korean.”
“Well my father who doesn’t know anything about microbiology, or the competition around here for that matter, says it’s Lee’s loss.”
“He’s probably right,” agreed Argo.
“He usually is.”
“It’s good that you respect your father. The American penchant to degrade the older generation hasn’t crept into your psyche.”
“He’s a wonderful man. How about your father? Has it crept into yours?”
“He left my mother with a baby,” said Argo flatly.
“I’m sorry.”
“And your mother?”
“She died several years ago.”
“So you selected the priesthood to compensate,” she said bluntly.
“You make it sound so mechanical, psychological.”
“It isn’t?”
“If I say no, you would think that subconsciously I did.”
“Probably,” she admitted with half-smile.
“So I’ll say that I think I chose the priesthood for other reasons.”
“And what might they be?”
“Well, I believe I was called, by God, to serve.”
“How did you know?”
“I believe. I don’t know. That is, I have faith.”
She thought a moment, pushing her over-sized glasses up the virtually flat bridge of her nose. “Are you happy … with your decision?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you when you knew you had the calling?”
“Young when I thought I might. I made the decision when I was in undergraduate school.”
“And you’re in the sciences. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, a bit. There are others.”
“But not with your talent.”
“I don’t know,” said Argo.
She reached for his crucifix, the light from the window reflecting from it. “And you’re modest,” she said letting the cross fall back against his chest. “You know other priests like you?” She was accusing him of false modesty, and that it may have been in part true made him smile.
“I know only the smallest percentage of priests. How I rate among them is something I could not possibly assess.”
“Good answer,” she said with a sly look out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s the truth,” insisted Argo.
“How about I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches. They won’t be as good as the ones they serve at the cafeteria, of course, but they’ll suffice.”
“You mean they won’t be limp and cool?”
“Or gummy,” she said walking to the refrigerator.
“Pity.”
It was doubtless a risk for Argo to have agreed to go to Sun Suk’s apartment. She could have given him the file the next day at school. To go there was to put himself in, as it was known, the occasion of sin. She was a single young woman, a California girl at that, and her manner was as open as it was assertive. It was clear to Argo that she stood on no ceremony, and that being the case, his collar would likely mean less than it might otherwise. To go to her apartment might have given her the wrong impression, yet to decline might have been insulting; they were adults after all. As it turned out, however, both were determined to keep the day platonic.
That was why Argo felt comfortable accompanying her a week later to a special preview of Mel Gibson’s film The Satanic Curses. Sun Suk’s father had gotten the two tickets from a vendor and offered them to her. There had been much fanfare about the film because it echoed Rushdie’s Satanic Verses which twenty years before was seen as blasphemous of Muhammad. Gibson’s film, while it had only the barest relationship to the book except to play on its title, did paint Islamic madrassas as evil institutions warping the education of Muslim children. Imams were Satanic and the curses targeted Christianity and the Western civilization it spawned.
“I don’t know about you,” said Sun Suk to Argo as she drove her Mazda convertible out of the theater parking lot, “but I found it a bore.”
“It was rather talky,” answered Argo who liked it.
“It had the requisite blood and gore,” she continued referring to the two beheading scenes, “but it was too black and white, and I don’t mean the color.” The film, with the exception of the executions, was shot in black and white.
“I think he wanted it to be black and white, the devil vs. God. That’s why he shot it in black and white.”
“Clearly,” she said a she accelerated up the boulevard as fast as the little car could manage. “But I would have preferred a more balanced approach to the issue … you know … to show the imams as having a point. I mean, there is another side to the story.”
“Not in Gibson’s view … it’s black and white.”
“Then why make a movie? Anyone can find fault with radical Islam.”
“But do they?” asked Argo. “Doesn’t the liberal gospel teach that the Judeo-Christian ethos is partially to blame for the violent reaction of Islam?”
“I think it is.”
“And that is the liberal line which Gibson challenges. He has made millions on being politically incorrect. Even before the film’s release … even before they have seen the film, liberal pundits had dismissed the film as fanatical and blatantly xenophobic.”
“Well, they knew what it was about,” she said. “You don’t have to see the film if you know that it is one sided to rail against it.”
“Obviously not,” answered Argo. “Did you know that Gibson’s father and he are members of the Opus Dei?”
“What’s that?”
“A conservative Catholic group. They’re very religious. Actually, they’re great supporters of my order.”
“The Legion of Christ?” she said. “Is your order conservative?”
“You might say that. We are strong supporters of the papacy, so I guess today that makes us conservative.”
Sun Suk kept silent, and Argo let the silence lay as a pall on their discussion.
They ate a late supper at a tavern to which Sun Suk and her friends had gone the week before. Polly’s Inn, a steak and ale place, had high booths which provided privacy and a place to talk. Over a quarter head of iceberg lettuce smothered in thick French dressing, which Argo had to push off with a spoon, their conversation centered on stem cells. By the time the roast beef and baked potato with too much sour cream were served, however, the conversation turned to Argo’s religious order. Much as Argo tried to extricate himself from an inquisition, Sun Suk prevailed. He explained as succinctly as possible that he believed that the pope could and sometimes does speak as Jesus Christ, and that makes the pope’s statements infallible.
“Why would Jesus leave the keys of His kingdom to someone who said the wrong things?” asked Argo rhetorically.
Sun Suk took a swig of her Bass ale before asking, “So you believe everything the pope says.”
“Only when he speaks or writes ex cathedra. Otherwise I am free to believe…”
“That’s just it,” she interrupted. “How can you be free or not free to believe? I mean, if you really believe something that the pope forbids you to believe, don’t you still believe it anyway?”
“You might have a doubting conscience,” Argo pointed out, “but let me ask you … if you know that the pope is speaking the words of Jesus Christ, how could your belief be correct if it contradicts God?”
“And what if you believe the pope is wrong?” she asked taking another gulp of ale.
“That’s not possible. On matters of faith and morals he is infallible because God speaks through him.”
“And if you don’t believe that?”
“Well, Protestants don’t. They believe in Christ … they’re Christian … but they believe that they can use the Bible to interpret on their own what is God’s will.”
She took more of her ale while he sipped a gin and tonic. “Well I guess I’m a Protestant then because I don’t believe the pope is right about abortion.”
“Which sect?” he asked with a grin. When he got no answer he continued, “I’d say you’re a Catholic with doubts. And that’s true of most Catholics today, especially here and Europe. The Legion of Christ is dedicated to working with Catholics who have doubts, to help them become better Catholics in a time when there are so many anti-Catholic forces we’re exposed to daily.”
“And you don’t have doubts?” she asked looking into his dark eyes from across the table in the dim tavern light.
Argo thought a moment. “I do have doubts about stem cells. When this research reaches the public, the Church will likely find that the destruction of stem cells, embryonic cells, is unacceptable. Because a cell is potential life, its destruction will not be tolerated.”
“And you are researching what you know will be rejected,” she said with confusion.
“I am,” answered Argo with a nod. “I believe it is a most practical application of scientific investigation … to help man fight nature … its crippling forces.”
“But you know it’s against the Church. I don’t get it.”
“It is not yet expressly forbidden. I said it was likely to be. The Curia will probably condemn it, but by then there may be alternatives.”
“And that’s why you wanted Lee to let you examine neural crest stem cells.”
“That was my idea, but if I am ever to do that it will not be here at Cal Tech.”
“Does your order know about this … about what you’re studying?”
“Yes, of course. They’re paying for it. To have one of their own who knows first hand about the research has some advantages, don’t you think?”
“I imagine it would.”
“We wouldn’t want to be accused of criticizing a movie before having seen it.” Argo’s face lit up, his teeth flashing a smile that Sun Suk had come to look forward to seeing. It was an infectious smile, one that engendered smiles in return if only to capture it in some way for oneself. His was a different intelligence from hers. It was a quiet mind, in no way aggressive, in no way dominating, but self-assured, and in that self-assuredness it was directive. He was quietly powerful unlike others who seemed compelled to demonstrate their brainpower. Behind his finely chiseled Latinate good looks was wisdom that seemed well beyond his years, and Sun Suk knew then that she wanted him.
It would be a challenge, of course, but priests were not unknown to submit to their natural instincts. When she invited him back to her apartment, Argo said he had studying to do, but she insisted.
“I make a mean Singapore sling. Did you ever have one?” she asked.
“No,” he said with a grin. “I’m afraid my experience is limited to a Tom Collins and gin and tonic.” His drink was half full.
“Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve had one of my slings. It has gin in it, and I use this aged Benedictine, which come to think of it all men of the cloth should like.”
“Ah, a religious drink,” he said with a chuckle.
“And it has cherry brandy,” she said with a slight leer, but she got no reaction.
Sun Suk played a CD of Ravel’s Bolero, it being the most seductive music she could think of, while she busied herself making the sling. Argo watched her tiny fingers slice a lime into slivers. Her movements were quick and precise, and she sped around the kitchen to get the ingredients in her blender.
“This is the Benedictine, Argo,” she said handing him the bottle from the cabinet over the stove. “My father got it from a dealer in Seoul. It’s twenty years old … supposed to be the best for Singapore slings because it isn’t so sweet.”
“It’s obvious you have trained in a lab,” Argo remarked. “Your precision in measuring the ingredients gives you away.”
“I know,” she said giving him a smile from over her shoulder. “Bartenders just throw the stuff in and somehow it tastes good anyway. I don’t know how they do it.”
“They do it often, that’s how. And they don’t have doctorates from Cal Tech.”
“Okay, Argo, here it is. I’ll tell you how to drink it,” she said with the excitement of a teenager telling her girlfriend how to inhale a cigarette and not choke. She handed him the drink and moved closer, looking up at him and making him look tall by comparison. “Now just sip it first and don’t let it hit the sides of your tongue … that’s for the sweetness later. Okay, go ahead.”
Argo sipped it as instructed, and Sun Suk monitored him intently.
“How was it?” she asked girlishly.
“Good.”
“It didn’t touch the sides of your tongue, did it?”
“No.”
“Okay, good. Now take a larger sip but don’t let it touch the sides of your tongue.”
“I never knew drinking a cocktail required this much effort,” he remarked. “The last time I put this much effort into anything I was using a laser to separate a nucleus from protoplasm.” She giggled as he took his second sip.
“Good, now you can drink it normally,” she said leading him to the living room. The Bolero was nearing its crescendo, and she lowered the volume on the player before pressing the replay button.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s very tasty.”
“I knew you would. If you like gin, this is the ultimate.” Sun Suk took her first sip and sat on the couch. “The speakers are set up for the couch. You can hear the stereo best from here.” She folded her legs under her and shot a smile across the room at him.
Argo hesitated before slowly walking to the couch. Sun Suk patted the empty cushion next to hers. “Do you like this piece, Argo?”
“Yes, it reminds me of that Dudley Moore movie, 10.” He was standing in front of her. “It’s like The William Tell Overture; I always think of the Lone Ranger. It’s evidence of my lower middle class background.”
“Sit,” she said patting the cushion again.
“Sun Suk, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said kindly, eyes sad.
“Oh,” she said straightening up a bit. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You’re not … not at all.”
“Then sit. You don’t have to worry; I won’t bite.”
“It’s not you that I’m worried about.”
Sun Suk graduated that year, and Argo graduated the following year. They did not remain friends.
[1] See reproductions on website: ___________________.
[2] Nearly all embryonic stem cells used for research are obtained from fertility clinics around the world. The cells, in a process called in-vitro fertilization, are grown from the sperm and egg donated by a couple a wishing to have a baby. Many more cells are formed in the process than are needed. The unused ones are either frozen for future use by the couple or are frozen for use in research. Most are simply discarded.
In Rome on June 1 of 1991, Pope John Paul II ordained 60 priests to serve in the elite Legion of Christ. Sixteen were from the Cadre of the Elite, and twenty-four-year-old Argo Malle was one of that cadre, which came to be called the Cadre of Vatican Legionaries. The slight of frame boy with black curly hair and bright white teeth from Bensonhurst, the Rutgers summa graduate, and the wunderkind of the Legion seminary in Connecticut, had completed his seminary training in the Cadre of Vatican Legionaries and distinguished himself once again as the most gifted of the gifted.
The crowning achievement of Argo’s two-year study in Rome was receiving the hands of His Holiness at his ordination while becoming the first to wear the Cross of the Cadre at his ordination in St. Peter’s Basilica. Designed by a Legionary who had been a commercial artist before enlisting, the cross was given to that Cadre graduate who most closely approached the essence of a Legionary. Forged in two pieces of stainless steel with oblong cutouts and a three-carat star sapphire at the center, the five-inch cross would become an integral part of Argo’s clerical dress. Inscribed on the back behind the sapphire was “Argo Malle, L.C.”
INSERT ILLUSTRATION
More than distinguishing him from the sixteen members of the cadre, that crucifix was for Argo palpable reminder of the Christ-like sacrifice he had made over the past four years as a seminarian. While the two years at the Vatican seminary was not so demanding or nearly so isolating as the two in Cheshire, Argo felt keenly the loss of family and familiar surroundings. Only twice in two years was Argo able to return to the United States, and the last time was for an interview at Cal Tech for their doctoral program in biochemistry. The year before, when he visited the Machiarolla’s and Frederic’s, Willow was spending her junior year abroad in England.
The Italian seminary was more theoretical and humanistic than he thought it might be, and while that entertained the intellect it seemed to forestall the practical application that would be necessary once out of the cloisters. Exactly what would be expected of a Legionary doing research and teaching science classes? How would his efforts differ, for example, from that of a Jesuit or Vincentian? Would he become part of the planned Cheshire, Connecticut Legion of Christ University or would he be assigned to a secular university in the United States? The members of the Cadre of Vatican Legionaries were told that their services might be required at Legion headquarters in Rome; would Argo’s? None of the answers to these questions was suggested by the administrators, and Argo thought it best not to ask lest it appear he had undue concern about how the Legion intended to use him. A Legionary, well-tutored in the spirit of charism, dedicated himself totally to service of the pope, the Legion, and ultimately the world.
It was fortunate for Argo that his spiritual advisor recommended him for graduate study in the United States; others of the cadre who had expected to go on to advanced academic study were deployed in other ways. Eight were returned to their countries, especially in South America and Africa, to found parish schools; two were sent to diocesan offices for administrative duties; and three, all Italian, were retained by the Legion to study international law and finances. Only two, one from Ireland and one from England, were sent for graduate study in the humanities. Argo, the only American in the cadre, was also the only one of the sixteen who was to study in the sciences.
The Cadre of Vatican Legionaries while most strict was less so than other Legion seminaries. Cadre seminarians were taken on tour of Vatican City and the churches of Rome as part of their history curriculum, and they could, in their limited free time, ask for permission to tour on their own. For Argo, direct and private exposure to the great art and architecture of the Middle Ages and Renaissance was a revelation. He learned to appreciate the truly remarkable work of men who lived centuries before him, to appreciate their intellects and their vision. From Giotto to Raphael and Bernini to Michelangelo, Argo learned how parochial his education had been. Perhaps being a New Yorker, being associated with a well-publicized sub-culture, and having graduated from a large secular university provided Argo with the notion that he had reached a level of sophistication few could match. However, his sophistication was grounded firmly in the 20th Century and totally in the Northeastern United States. The culture of Rome reached back two thousand years and across the continents, and the Roman Church was the repository of that culture.
At one end of the Piazza del Popolo stood the celebrated Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, and on Argo’s first foray alone in Rome he stood in front of Caravaggio’s The Crucifixion of St. Peter. Struck by the bold naturalism of the 400-year-old painting, Argo realized that Rembrandt had a precursor. Caravaggio had been only a name until that day, but the power of the crucifiers and vibrancy of form made the name come to life. When Argo saw the tenderness and adoration depicted in Caravaggio’s The Madonna of Loreto, he became a devotee of the Milanese artist.[1]
A young artist, sitting behind his easel copying The Crucifixion, noticed Argo’s interest and said in Italian, “It’s the light, Father; that’s what’s so captivating. I’m using cobalt, but it’s not right; he did something to it.” Argo listened to the bearded throw-back to the beat generation explain the difficulty of trying to match the master. He wore sandals and a beret spattered with paint, and his jeans and long sleeved polo shirt could have been a palette. Argo thought that beatniks been replaced fifty or sixty years before by hippies, many of whom probably placed their easels in the same spot, in the same room, and in front of the same painting, each thinking he was unique in his eschewal of the norm.
The artist, who seemed older than he had first appeared, told Argo where he could find other Caravaggios in Rome. In his best Italian Argo thanked him for the leads and turned to go. “Say hello to Clinton,” called the neo-beatnik after him.
At the Galleria Borghese Argo saw the David with the Head of Goliath, even more powerful and frightening to Argo than The Crucifixion. The youthful David with serene equanimity held the head of the grotesque giant by the hair in one hand and wielded a sword in the other. The incongruity was chilling. How could such a frail youth commit so horrific an act and be so complacent? Then Argo felt a tingle in his neck when he realized that he could.
It was not only the grand silence of Italian art that came to be part of Argo but also their folk music. He had always appreciated their classical music, but before his stay in Rome he had not heard their rich popular music sung often with operatic intensity. Largely Neapolitan and often composed by unknown writers, the songs were mostly love songs, lush and often tragic. Like the English and Italian sonnets of the 16th Century, these ballads were frequently about unrequited love, a tenor crying out for the pain of loss.
Argo first heard this music in the small basement commissary where a television that received only one station and a dual cassette player sat against a wall. Smoke-filled and dimly lit, the room was at once a lunchroom and recreation area for the seminarians. A ping-pong table, sometimes used for meals when it got crowded, sat at one end of the room and the kitchen at the other with folding tables and chairs in the middle. One of the Italian novitiates donated his cassette collection to the order and would often play his tapes, always after asking permission from any others in the room.
It had rained for three days, and on this Sunday in April Argo had not been assigned to assist at services as deacons often were. He would be free for the rest of the day for study and private prayer, but Argo could not bring himself to do either. He left his dormitory at the Via del Gianicolo under an umbrella and made his way around large puddles on the ancient sidewalk toward St. Peter’s Square. The wind was strong, and the dark gray sky suggested there would be no let up in the rain. Argo, dressed only in his cassock, felt as chill and dark as the day. The wind was gusting from the south, and he had to lower the umbrella to keep the wind from turning it inside out. By the time he had reached the portico of St. Peter’s, his pants were wet and his shoes squeaked. Argo watched the faithful fight the wind and rain as they made their way up the stairs to the cathedral for the eleven o’clock mass.
The plaza was more crowded than it had been, and that meant the tourist season had begun. Most of the visitors were couples huddled closely under one umbrella, and Argo wondered how many were Americans on vacation. A sudden burst of wind everted the umbrella of a young couple, and as the man reached up to right it, it blew from his hands sailing across the plaza. She laughed and impulsively planted a kiss on his cheek before they ran the rest of the way, hand in hand, up the stairs toward where Argo stood watching them. They were wet and they were in love, and Argo’s heart went out to them.
“Here,” said Argo in Italian offering them his umbrella as they approached him out of the rain. She was wearing a black kerchief, and that meant she was a native.
“No thank you, Father,” said the young man in English. “It will stop by the time we go out.” Argo smiled realizing that it would not matter to the lovers whether it did or not.
“Grazia, Father,” said the young woman with a wonderful smile that reached Argo to his core.
As heart-warming as the couple was, they made Argo feel even colder inside than he had. Three years had passed since he held Willow’s hand along Sheepshead Bay, and now he could barely remember all the features of the face which had captivated him and which now had appeared to him regularly through the dim veil of pre sleep reverie. Had he gone to Latrobe with Benny Musso he would not have lost her; he could have seen her regularly, and they would have remained close. As Argo stared out through the rain across the plaza he saw the grotesque face of the Cheshire Cat mouth the word “propinquous.”
Argo put up his umbrella and walked slowly back home, damp, down, and doubtful.
It was after lunch, and the few men who had been in the commissary had left leaving Argo alone, as dark and dreary as the weather. Tomaso Solari, the seminarian with the tapes, left a Sergio Franchi tape playing, and Argo, who had not noticed it until then, began to listen to the tenor sing simple songs accompanied by powerful orchestral arrangements. Sergio Franchi, a tenor who had sung at La Scalla, had managed a rare crossover into popular music during the 1960’s. His good looks, beautiful voice, and strong command of English contributed to his success around the world, especially in the United States.
The song was as hauntingly beautiful as it was clutchingly sad, and as Argo paid closer attention to the Italian lyrics, tears welled up in his eyes. It was Argo singing to Willow, and she, sitting in her room alone, longed for him as much as he did for her. Eerily the song ended in English with the words, “God, how much I love you,” and immediately the cassette player stopped with a loud click that brought Argo back to the empty lunchroom. How ironic that a foreign song which sang to him ended in his own language and included God. It was for God that Argo was a world away from Willow.
Argo saw on the empty cassette case that the song was entitled “Dio, Como Ti Amo,” composer unknown. He rewound the tape to play the folk song again. It was not about unrequited love, but about lovers who were separated and how wonderful and special was their love. Argo could not translate two of the words, and some of the phrases did not work in English. After playing back the tape several times, he was able to transcribe on table napkins a very rough translation of the song that would distract him for days.
God, How Much I Love You
In the sky the clouds pass and go towards the sea
They seem like white ______ men wave as they greet our love.
God, how I love you!
It is not possible to have in my arms so much happiness
To kiss your lips that smell of wind
We two sweethearts like nobody else in the world.
God, how much I love you
I begin to cry.
In all my life I have not ever tried
A good thing beloved, a true good thing.
Who can stop the river that runs toward the sea?
Like the _____ in the sky that go toward the sun.
Who can change the love I have for you?
God, how much I love you!
At his desk and under an old gooseneck lamp, Argo flipped through his dictionary; however, as he worked on it he realized that without the music, the song was not nearly so expressive or moving. It was the combination of the rich tenor voice and soulful violins which added strength to the lyrics. The art lay in the combination of sound and sense, and to separate one from the other was to eviscerate the whole.
Argo waited until that night to return to the commissary to replay the tape. It would be necessary to fit English lyrics to the Italian, syllable by syllable, stress for stress. It was not unlike writing in iambic pentameter for Willow’s sonnet, and when he finished, it was possible to sing the song in English, perfectly set to the music as it was in Italian.
Dio, Como Ti Amo
Translated by Argo Malle
How much I love you!
Oh, how much I love you!
In the sky
As the great clouds fly past ---
As they reflect in the sea
They seem like white handkerchiefs
Waving at our great love.
God, how much I love you!
It is not possible
To have within my arms
So much happiness ---
To kiss your sweet lips
That taste like the fresh breeze ---
We are two lovers
Like no one else in the wide world.
God, how much I love you!
I just begin to cry.
In the whole of my poor life
I could never have had
Anything more lovely ---
Anyone more beloved!
Who can stop the mighty river
That rushes toward the great sea?
The swallows in the blue sky
That fly always to the bright sun?
Who can change this great love ---
The love I have for you?
God, how much I love you!
Oh, how much I love you!
God, how much I love you!
It took two hours of playing and replaying the song until he was satisfied that the lyrics he had written in English captured the meaning of the original and would precisely match the Italian. Argo had adapted a work of art, soulful and organic, which expressed in a way he could not the loss he felt for Willow.
As he lay in bed, the song playing in his mind, he decided he would somehow share with Willow the aching beauty of separated lovers. It was wrong, even stupid, but he was too weak to resist. While nothing could come from his passion, it was simply too frustrating not to give it vent. If she could hear the song and know what it said, Willow would know how he felt, and in that there would be some measure of relief.
He would need to get her a cassette tape of the song, and in his darkened room, Argo could see her open a package that held the cassette with the lyrics he had translated for her wrapped around it. Argo fell asleep knowing that he could never mail such a package to her lest her parents, who would never open her mail, ask her what she had received from her “stepbrother.”
It was three days before he saw Tomaso Solari in the dining room, and Argo asked if Solari had a blank cassette he might use to make a copy of the song.
“It is so beautiful I want to send it home to my family,” said Argo holding the cassette in his hand. However, there were no blank tapes of the twenty or so in the collection.
“Here,” said Solari, handing Argo a recorded tape. “I never play it. Just copy over it.”
Argo resisted but the Italian insisted. Solari popped the tape in the left drive, hit the record button, and then let the tape run.
“When it finishes,” said Solari, “put it in the right drive and your song in the left. You know how it works, no?”
Argo said he did.
“The Americans invent them and the Japanese make them,” said Solari with a warm smile, happy to help his first American friend.
“And Italians make the music,” Argo said flashing a thank you smile.
The tape complete, Argo wrapped it in the notebook leaf on which he had written the lyrics. He had planned to give it to her when he returned in two months, but when he visited the Frederic’s in late June, Willow had already left to spend her junior year abroad. Argo secreted the song in her room hoping that she would find it before her mother or one of her sisters.
Soon after Willow’s return to New Jersey, he received a greeting card with fishing boats on the front and no words on the inside. Willow had drawn a smiley face but with the mouth tuned down and a single tear on the right cheek.
l
The South Korean born Sun-fat Lee was Merlinck Professor of Biochemistry at Cal Tech, and Argo considered himself fortunate to have been accepted as one of his students. At the time, Dr. Lee and his research team were the only Americans working on stem cell collection and harvesting, a process recently started in Milan. Still only in its infancy, stem cell research held out the best hope, small as it was, to repair spinal cord injuries. To be associated with research of that nature under the direction of a man of Dr. Lee’s caliber was the height of good fortune --- from the outside looking in.
Unfortunately for Argo, Dr. Lee’s research was not done by his graduate students or “assistants” but only by his graduates and a staff of techs. Graduate student interaction with the Nobel Prize winning biochemist was limited to occasional lectures and less occasional laboratory demonstrations. For Argo, graduate student life differed little from his time at Rutgers: go to class, study texts, complete rote experiments, and take tests. At least at Rutgers he had a top-flight teacher; at Cal Tech he had a self-centered and controlling mentor whose every man for himself attitude was adopted by his staff and students.
At first Argo thought that if he completed his daily schoolwork early enough, he could spend after hours time in the lab, and in that way gain valuable first-hand experience. However, his presence in the lab was discouraged, and despite his excellent scholarship, Argo was unable to distinguish himself.
It was at the outset of his second semester that Argo decided that rather than be a supernumerary to Lee’s research team for four years, he would concentrate solely on his classes and his own research paper in order to graduate in three years. Cal Tech’s size and few required courses made it possible for Argo to take classes in the evening and during summers to complete the course requirement while at the same time work on his thesis. Argo soon learned, however, that only research helpful to Dr. Lee would be approved.
“My young Father Malle,” said the mercurial Dr. Lee with only the faintest Asian accent. “I have read your proposal and find it wanting in two areas.” Lee had found Argo in the lab working on a classroom project. There were three other students in the lab at the time, and their worked stopped as they listened.
Argo’s proposal, "The isolation, culturing and study of cell intrinsic development changes of neural crest stem cells from adult rats," was a departure from Lee’s work, which focused on human embryonic stem cells. However, Agro having read the little that was known about neural crest stem cells, the primitive cells that generate the peripheral nervous system, he was convinced that the study of these cells would be a useful contribution to the field. While not completely undifferentiated as are embryonic stem cells, the neural crest cells are very close to embryonic stem cells. Moreover, they were available from laboratory animals and would allow Agro to avoid the coming storm he foresaw in the ethics of human embryonic stem cell research. There would come a time, he believed, when religious leaders of all casts would demand of their governments that research on human embryos be halted. It was even likely that the U.S. government would withdraw Lee’s funding.
“First, the chance that they could be isolated from adult mammals is remote,” said Lee with disdain. “And second, there is little practical application to our work.” His voice was loud, his manner petulant, and he handed the proposal back to Argo without expecting a response.
“First,” said Argo to Lee who had already turned back to his office, “there is no proscription I know of that research cannot be used to test a hypothesis, even if it is unlikely to be affirmed.”
“There is no value if you fail in show untrue what the field believes about crest cells. Crest stem cells die off after forming the peripheral nervous system, as I’m sure you know,” snapped Lee, his face turned halfway round but not making eye contact with the angered Argo.
“Second,” continued Argo, “you have never stated that all research must be directly correlative to your particular interest, as I am sure you know.”
Dr. Lee walked back toward Argo, glowering at his student’s impertinence.
“This is the real world, Fr. Malle. Our research is paid for by taxpayers who expect results. If you want to do research that has no chance of amounting to anything, I suggest you invest your considerable talents at a lesser institution.”
“I thought I already was at a lesser institution,” said Argo, his eyes narrow and focused on his prey.”
“I see you have a quick wit,” said Lee with a smirk.
“It’s a shame you see only what’s in front of you. I would have hoped you would have been capable of seeing a bit more.”
“By that you mean that your research proposal is something I do not see, something beyond my ken.”
“Excellent, Dr. Lee,” said Argo mockingly.
“Arrogant fool,” exclaimed the professor marching back to his office.
Argo had little doubt the Church would oppose the use of embryonic stem cells on the basis that even an embryo that would never be implanted in a woman constituted a potential life, and the destruction of potential life, no matter the nobility of the cause, could not be accepted.[2] Agro was thoroughly familiar with the encyclical “On Life” that had been written years before, and there had, of course, been no mention of stem cells. It would likely be years, if ever, before an encyclical would be written condemning the research practice, but Argo thought it only a matter of time before Rome would speak out against the practice. He hoped that by then the science might improve enough to offer an alternative. Unfortunately, Argo was a bit ahead of his time for Dr. Lee, and so a topic for his dissertation would have to center on embryonic stem cells that would help move Lee’s research along. It was the only way he had any hope of receiving his doctorate from the prestigious Department of Biology of Cal Tech.
Sitting two tables away and witnessing Argo’s reaction to his rejection was Sun Suk Moon, a senior not selected for the one open position on Lee’s staff. That position was offered to Daniel Epstein whose grades were not quite so good as Miss Moon’s but whose attitude suggested he would be a better team member.
“I saw you yesterday in the lab,” said Sun Suk carrying her cafeteria tray to Argo’s table. As usual, Argo sat alone with a book or newspaper during meals, and perhaps because he was a priest, most people did not disturb him. “With Dr. Lee.” She placed her tray down on the opposite side of the table and took a seat.
They had been in only one class together, statistics, but had never spoken. She was petite, barely five feet tall, and tied her bright black hair back in a ponytail making her look closer to fifteen than twenty-five. She wore round rimless glasses, small sapphire earrings, and a fine gold crucifix.
“I’m Sun Suk Moon, and I know you’re Father Malle,” she said without a smile. She had large eyes and turned down lips making her look rather like a sad China doll.
“Argo,” he said flashing his bright white teeth.
“I hope you don’t mind; I just wanted to tell you how happy I was to see you stand up to Lee.”
“I’m afraid I was a bit intemperate, but it is nice of you to say.”
“It’s the truth,” she said looking right into his eyes. “He tried to embarrass you in front of others, and you didn’t take it. It’s about time he got it back, and from someone quiet like you. I bet that jarred his preserves.”
“I doubt it.”
“So what was your topic?”
“I wanted to look at neural crest stem cells’ sensitivity to instructive differentiation signals.”
“Why? What would you expect to find?” She placed her napkin in her lap and unwrapped her sandwich.
“There certainly are chemical signals which make stem cells generate other cells of the P.N.S. It would be a real contribution to know what those chemicals were, and that information might be helpful in understanding what makes the embryonic stem cell differentiate. I guess Lee doesn’t think so.”
Sun Suk shrugged, “I think it’s a creative approach. Have you read Braddock and Lynch?”
“Yes, that’s where I got the idea. But they just differentiated. They were concerned with the chemistry, not adaptation or substitution.”
“I know,” she said with a mouthful of turkey on rye. “They’re more taxonomic than anything else.”
“They are,” agreed Argo, sipping his coffee.
“I can’t drink the coffee here,” she said. “It’s the paper cups; you can taste it.”
“I’ve gotten used to it, cafeteria cuisine.” He took another sip to see if he could see what she meant. He could but he had become inured.
“In the seminary?”
Argo nodded. “And at Rutgers.”
“Is that where you’re from? You’re a long way from home.”
“I came because of Lee.”
“So did I. I went to Berkley. I’m from Southern California originally… how about you?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Rutgers isn’t in Brooklyn, is it?”
“New Brunswick, New Jersey. I moved to New Jersey.”
“And the seminary?”
“Connecticut first, then Rome.”
“Rome?” she said with surprise. “How did you get there?”
“They sent me from Connecticut after my second year. They couldn’t take me any longer.”
Sun Suk laughed for the first time, and her little round face lit up. “No, really, why did they send you to Rome?”
“They had a program, the Legion of Christ, which is my order. It was an international group. They had to send someone.”
“Is that what the LC after your name means? I saw it on the class register in statistics.”
“Yes. Have you ever heard of it?”
“No,” she said regretfully. “I’m not much of a Catholic, I guess.”
“I never did either until just before I joined. It’s a relatively new order --- like the Jesuits in some ways.”
“Is that a cross of the Legion of Christ?”
Argo quickly looked down at it before answering. “Yes, it is. They call it the Cross of the Cadre. Actually it was given to me by Pope John Paul II at my ordination.”
“You must be very proud,” she said, truly impressed. “It’s striking. Is that a sapphire?” she asked subconsciously touching an earring.
“It is,” he said raising it up from his chest. “It’s stainless steel and made especially for the ordination … to celebrate the ordination of the Cadre of Legionaries by the Pope.”
“So all Legionaries get a cross at ordination?”
“No, just this one was made.”
“And you got it? Wow, I’m impressed.” Her eyes wide open and fixed on his.
“I was very fortunate,” said Argo with as much modesty as he could muster. Argo sensed she was appealing to his male ego but liked it just the same.
l
Students of high academic achievement assume they are superior to lesser students, and nothing in education disabuses them of that notion. Students compete for grades, which lead to grade point averages, which offer a quantifiable measure of success. It is not until after the artificiality of schoolroom competition do top students learn that their prior success is no guarantee that the students they had topped will not in the real world surpass them.
However, until this realization, the best students tend to respect only others like themselves in the way the very wealthy or the very beautiful do. Now if a top student is also handsome, he becomes even more respected, at least by members of the opposite sex. (The opposite is true among members of the same sex.) If that top student who is handsome is also unavailable, that student becomes most attractive.
And so it was with Sun Suk Moon and her new friend, whom she dubbed the Priest from the East. It was not her intention to seduce the brilliant and handsome cleric, but that is what she did. Of course, it might be said that Argo in the same way seduced her.
Her father, who had emigrated from Seoul as a youth, ran a successful software company. Sun Suk, whose mother was a physician’s assistant, inherited her father’s quantitative skills, and started out as a math major at UC Berkley. When she decided that microbiology and not mathematics would earn her more money, she focused her academic talent on a more practical discipline.
Sun Suk had a photographic memory that was largely responsible for her straight A’s. However, it was not only memory at which the California girl excelled. In statistics, the branch of mathematics necessary in the evaluation of clinical studies, she also was excellent. Psychometricians would define hers as a flexible intellect; everyone else defined it as genius.
“It doesn’t last long, but for awhile I can recall a lot of detail --- almost all of what I read. But I have to concentrate,” she said as she demonstrated her talent by reading an article from The New York Times magazine and answering correctly all of the minutia on which Argo quizzed her. They were in her off campus apartment at her kitchen table.
“A gift for sure,” he said, picking up a notebook of hers which lay on the table. What he did not say was that he had much the same talent, and while he admired her intellect, there were two parts of Sun Suk that most fascinated Argo. Her dark eyes were set far apart which made her look like a doll, and her fingers were as small and as delicate as a child’s. When she wrote, her tiny fingers wrapped around a Bic as if it were a large Sharpie. The characters she wrote were small and perfectly drawn with speed that seemed twice his own.
“And your notes are impossibly neat. Your handwriting is the best I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I remember in class how quickly you wrote --- like a supercharged typewriter.”
Sun Suk smirked. “So after you see my mental ability you are most impressed by my handwriting? Nice!”
“Er, that would be ‘more impressed’ because you are comparing two things: mental ability and handwriting. We use ‘most’ for more than two.” Argo’s eyes were gleaming but he managed not to smile.
“So you’ve mastered 8th grade English.”
“Pity you haven’t.” Argo could not keep a straight face, and his boyish smile touched Sun Suk.
“I have,” she said with her own smile, warm and cherubic. “I was just testing you.”
“And how did I do?”
“Better than you did on your proposal,” she said taking a folder from the briefcase which sat on the side of her chair. Argo was there to examine a research proposal Sun Suk had made along with the one she had actually completed. Both had been approved, and she chose the more difficult one because she thought it might improve her chances of being selected for Lee’s staff.
“This one is a proven winner, if you’re interested,” she said handing Argo the folder. In it was a stapled three-page document with a cover page on which was typed, "Using dorsal root ganglia (DRG) which serve in diverse sensory modalities including pain, touch, and body position, we will explore the transcription factors that control the cutaneous sensory afferent fibers."
He flipped through the proposal and without looking up said, “They do, don’t they?”
“Well I guess so, but there’s more to it. Even Bundenthal at MIT just touched on it.”
“Well I am interested,” he said, sensing that the work was doable in a short time. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Why should I? I’m not going to be working here. I have my defense in June and I’m out of here. I don’t care what they do or don’t do. I’ve got to find a job.” She spoke with an edge that Argo found incongruous given her little girl looks, and it was a bit off putting. However, her anger and disappointment at not being chosen was understandable.
“Given the quality of your work, Sun Suk, why do you think you didn’t get the position?”
“Who knows?” she said with a shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t want another woman.”
“Or a Korean.”
“Well my father who doesn’t know anything about microbiology, or the competition around here for that matter, says it’s Lee’s loss.”
“He’s probably right,” agreed Argo.
“He usually is.”
“It’s good that you respect your father. The American penchant to degrade the older generation hasn’t crept into your psyche.”
“He’s a wonderful man. How about your father? Has it crept into yours?”
“He left my mother with a baby,” said Argo flatly.
“I’m sorry.”
“And your mother?”
“She died several years ago.”
“So you selected the priesthood to compensate,” she said bluntly.
“You make it sound so mechanical, psychological.”
“It isn’t?”
“If I say no, you would think that subconsciously I did.”
“Probably,” she admitted with half-smile.
“So I’ll say that I think I chose the priesthood for other reasons.”
“And what might they be?”
“Well, I believe I was called, by God, to serve.”
“How did you know?”
“I believe. I don’t know. That is, I have faith.”
She thought a moment, pushing her over-sized glasses up the virtually flat bridge of her nose. “Are you happy … with your decision?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you when you knew you had the calling?”
“Young when I thought I might. I made the decision when I was in undergraduate school.”
“And you’re in the sciences. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, a bit. There are others.”
“But not with your talent.”
“I don’t know,” said Argo.
She reached for his crucifix, the light from the window reflecting from it. “And you’re modest,” she said letting the cross fall back against his chest. “You know other priests like you?” She was accusing him of false modesty, and that it may have been in part true made him smile.
“I know only the smallest percentage of priests. How I rate among them is something I could not possibly assess.”
“Good answer,” she said with a sly look out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s the truth,” insisted Argo.
“How about I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches. They won’t be as good as the ones they serve at the cafeteria, of course, but they’ll suffice.”
“You mean they won’t be limp and cool?”
“Or gummy,” she said walking to the refrigerator.
“Pity.”
It was doubtless a risk for Argo to have agreed to go to Sun Suk’s apartment. She could have given him the file the next day at school. To go there was to put himself in, as it was known, the occasion of sin. She was a single young woman, a California girl at that, and her manner was as open as it was assertive. It was clear to Argo that she stood on no ceremony, and that being the case, his collar would likely mean less than it might otherwise. To go to her apartment might have given her the wrong impression, yet to decline might have been insulting; they were adults after all. As it turned out, however, both were determined to keep the day platonic.
That was why Argo felt comfortable accompanying her a week later to a special preview of Mel Gibson’s film The Satanic Curses. Sun Suk’s father had gotten the two tickets from a vendor and offered them to her. There had been much fanfare about the film because it echoed Rushdie’s Satanic Verses which twenty years before was seen as blasphemous of Muhammad. Gibson’s film, while it had only the barest relationship to the book except to play on its title, did paint Islamic madrassas as evil institutions warping the education of Muslim children. Imams were Satanic and the curses targeted Christianity and the Western civilization it spawned.
“I don’t know about you,” said Sun Suk to Argo as she drove her Mazda convertible out of the theater parking lot, “but I found it a bore.”
“It was rather talky,” answered Argo who liked it.
“It had the requisite blood and gore,” she continued referring to the two beheading scenes, “but it was too black and white, and I don’t mean the color.” The film, with the exception of the executions, was shot in black and white.
“I think he wanted it to be black and white, the devil vs. God. That’s why he shot it in black and white.”
“Clearly,” she said a she accelerated up the boulevard as fast as the little car could manage. “But I would have preferred a more balanced approach to the issue … you know … to show the imams as having a point. I mean, there is another side to the story.”
“Not in Gibson’s view … it’s black and white.”
“Then why make a movie? Anyone can find fault with radical Islam.”
“But do they?” asked Argo. “Doesn’t the liberal gospel teach that the Judeo-Christian ethos is partially to blame for the violent reaction of Islam?”
“I think it is.”
“And that is the liberal line which Gibson challenges. He has made millions on being politically incorrect. Even before the film’s release … even before they have seen the film, liberal pundits had dismissed the film as fanatical and blatantly xenophobic.”
“Well, they knew what it was about,” she said. “You don’t have to see the film if you know that it is one sided to rail against it.”
“Obviously not,” answered Argo. “Did you know that Gibson’s father and he are members of the Opus Dei?”
“What’s that?”
“A conservative Catholic group. They’re very religious. Actually, they’re great supporters of my order.”
“The Legion of Christ?” she said. “Is your order conservative?”
“You might say that. We are strong supporters of the papacy, so I guess today that makes us conservative.”
Sun Suk kept silent, and Argo let the silence lay as a pall on their discussion.
They ate a late supper at a tavern to which Sun Suk and her friends had gone the week before. Polly’s Inn, a steak and ale place, had high booths which provided privacy and a place to talk. Over a quarter head of iceberg lettuce smothered in thick French dressing, which Argo had to push off with a spoon, their conversation centered on stem cells. By the time the roast beef and baked potato with too much sour cream were served, however, the conversation turned to Argo’s religious order. Much as Argo tried to extricate himself from an inquisition, Sun Suk prevailed. He explained as succinctly as possible that he believed that the pope could and sometimes does speak as Jesus Christ, and that makes the pope’s statements infallible.
“Why would Jesus leave the keys of His kingdom to someone who said the wrong things?” asked Argo rhetorically.
Sun Suk took a swig of her Bass ale before asking, “So you believe everything the pope says.”
“Only when he speaks or writes ex cathedra. Otherwise I am free to believe…”
“That’s just it,” she interrupted. “How can you be free or not free to believe? I mean, if you really believe something that the pope forbids you to believe, don’t you still believe it anyway?”
“You might have a doubting conscience,” Argo pointed out, “but let me ask you … if you know that the pope is speaking the words of Jesus Christ, how could your belief be correct if it contradicts God?”
“And what if you believe the pope is wrong?” she asked taking another gulp of ale.
“That’s not possible. On matters of faith and morals he is infallible because God speaks through him.”
“And if you don’t believe that?”
“Well, Protestants don’t. They believe in Christ … they’re Christian … but they believe that they can use the Bible to interpret on their own what is God’s will.”
She took more of her ale while he sipped a gin and tonic. “Well I guess I’m a Protestant then because I don’t believe the pope is right about abortion.”
“Which sect?” he asked with a grin. When he got no answer he continued, “I’d say you’re a Catholic with doubts. And that’s true of most Catholics today, especially here and Europe. The Legion of Christ is dedicated to working with Catholics who have doubts, to help them become better Catholics in a time when there are so many anti-Catholic forces we’re exposed to daily.”
“And you don’t have doubts?” she asked looking into his dark eyes from across the table in the dim tavern light.
Argo thought a moment. “I do have doubts about stem cells. When this research reaches the public, the Church will likely find that the destruction of stem cells, embryonic cells, is unacceptable. Because a cell is potential life, its destruction will not be tolerated.”
“And you are researching what you know will be rejected,” she said with confusion.
“I am,” answered Argo with a nod. “I believe it is a most practical application of scientific investigation … to help man fight nature … its crippling forces.”
“But you know it’s against the Church. I don’t get it.”
“It is not yet expressly forbidden. I said it was likely to be. The Curia will probably condemn it, but by then there may be alternatives.”
“And that’s why you wanted Lee to let you examine neural crest stem cells.”
“That was my idea, but if I am ever to do that it will not be here at Cal Tech.”
“Does your order know about this … about what you’re studying?”
“Yes, of course. They’re paying for it. To have one of their own who knows first hand about the research has some advantages, don’t you think?”
“I imagine it would.”
“We wouldn’t want to be accused of criticizing a movie before having seen it.” Argo’s face lit up, his teeth flashing a smile that Sun Suk had come to look forward to seeing. It was an infectious smile, one that engendered smiles in return if only to capture it in some way for oneself. His was a different intelligence from hers. It was a quiet mind, in no way aggressive, in no way dominating, but self-assured, and in that self-assuredness it was directive. He was quietly powerful unlike others who seemed compelled to demonstrate their brainpower. Behind his finely chiseled Latinate good looks was wisdom that seemed well beyond his years, and Sun Suk knew then that she wanted him.
It would be a challenge, of course, but priests were not unknown to submit to their natural instincts. When she invited him back to her apartment, Argo said he had studying to do, but she insisted.
“I make a mean Singapore sling. Did you ever have one?” she asked.
“No,” he said with a grin. “I’m afraid my experience is limited to a Tom Collins and gin and tonic.” His drink was half full.
“Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve had one of my slings. It has gin in it, and I use this aged Benedictine, which come to think of it all men of the cloth should like.”
“Ah, a religious drink,” he said with a chuckle.
“And it has cherry brandy,” she said with a slight leer, but she got no reaction.
Sun Suk played a CD of Ravel’s Bolero, it being the most seductive music she could think of, while she busied herself making the sling. Argo watched her tiny fingers slice a lime into slivers. Her movements were quick and precise, and she sped around the kitchen to get the ingredients in her blender.
“This is the Benedictine, Argo,” she said handing him the bottle from the cabinet over the stove. “My father got it from a dealer in Seoul. It’s twenty years old … supposed to be the best for Singapore slings because it isn’t so sweet.”
“It’s obvious you have trained in a lab,” Argo remarked. “Your precision in measuring the ingredients gives you away.”
“I know,” she said giving him a smile from over her shoulder. “Bartenders just throw the stuff in and somehow it tastes good anyway. I don’t know how they do it.”
“They do it often, that’s how. And they don’t have doctorates from Cal Tech.”
“Okay, Argo, here it is. I’ll tell you how to drink it,” she said with the excitement of a teenager telling her girlfriend how to inhale a cigarette and not choke. She handed him the drink and moved closer, looking up at him and making him look tall by comparison. “Now just sip it first and don’t let it hit the sides of your tongue … that’s for the sweetness later. Okay, go ahead.”
Argo sipped it as instructed, and Sun Suk monitored him intently.
“How was it?” she asked girlishly.
“Good.”
“It didn’t touch the sides of your tongue, did it?”
“No.”
“Okay, good. Now take a larger sip but don’t let it touch the sides of your tongue.”
“I never knew drinking a cocktail required this much effort,” he remarked. “The last time I put this much effort into anything I was using a laser to separate a nucleus from protoplasm.” She giggled as he took his second sip.
“Good, now you can drink it normally,” she said leading him to the living room. The Bolero was nearing its crescendo, and she lowered the volume on the player before pressing the replay button.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s very tasty.”
“I knew you would. If you like gin, this is the ultimate.” Sun Suk took her first sip and sat on the couch. “The speakers are set up for the couch. You can hear the stereo best from here.” She folded her legs under her and shot a smile across the room at him.
Argo hesitated before slowly walking to the couch. Sun Suk patted the empty cushion next to hers. “Do you like this piece, Argo?”
“Yes, it reminds me of that Dudley Moore movie, 10.” He was standing in front of her. “It’s like The William Tell Overture; I always think of the Lone Ranger. It’s evidence of my lower middle class background.”
“Sit,” she said patting the cushion again.
“Sun Suk, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said kindly, eyes sad.
“Oh,” she said straightening up a bit. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You’re not … not at all.”
“Then sit. You don’t have to worry; I won’t bite.”
“It’s not you that I’m worried about.”
Sun Suk graduated that year, and Argo graduated the following year. They did not remain friends.
[1] See reproductions on website: ___________________.
[2] Nearly all embryonic stem cells used for research are obtained from fertility clinics around the world. The cells, in a process called in-vitro fertilization, are grown from the sperm and egg donated by a couple a wishing to have a baby. Many more cells are formed in the process than are needed. The unused ones are either frozen for future use by the couple or are frozen for use in research. Most are simply discarded.
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