Marcelo in the Real World: Chapters 11–16

She is courteous with people, says “please” and “thank you” when the occasion requires it, jokes with people or snaps at them when provoked, but she always seems to be reacting rather than initiating and her reaction is extended only to the point that it is necessary and no further.

It is time again for a periodic assessment of Marcelo’s progress.

I had seen Rose do her job and I knew I could do it, but a lot of people in the firm didn’t think an eighteen-year-old was old enough to handle the responsibility of paying bills on time, sending out invoices for legal work, keeping track of supplies, all those things we do.

I see Jasmine look at me as if she’s trying to make a decision. When she speaks, she speaks in a way I’ve never heard her speak before. Tentative.

“Be still my beating heart!” She places her hand over her chest and palpitates it like a heart.

But in order to articulate this I need to be still. Talking about what makes a woman beautiful and walking is something that is beyond all my powers.

Then she is quiet for a few moments before she says, “Before we delve into the interpretation, can I ask you a question?”

“Why do you ask me this now? Did something happen at the law firm to prompt this question?”

After the fruit, Adam and Eve recognized that they had in themselves an inclination for evil alongside their inclination for good.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be condescending. Of course you are not a child. You’re a young man.”

It’s not for me to give you images of evil. It saddens me to know that you will find out soon enough the different ways that we have devised to hurt each other.

How is it that people can chew and taste and think and talk all at the same time? My head feels full, as if Wendell’s words are food that my brain is unable to digest.

I cannot distinguish whether I am afraid for Jasmine or for myself.

One was from an old Boston family. You could trace the family’s lineage all the way to the folks that arrived on the Mayflower.

Let’s just say that for some reason these two lawyers did not like each other. There are various accounts floating around as to the origin of their animosity.

One of them, the one I am most partial to, is that Minority Hire turned out, unexpectedly, to be an excellent lawyer. Not just in the sense of being super- proficient in his area of the law, but in his entrepreneurship.

He traveled to Mexico and other countries in Central and South America on his own and found scientists who were working at universities or small laboratories, scientists who were inventing new chemicals and gadgets. Minority Hire promised them that if they became his clients, he would get their inventions patented in the United States and he would help them find companies that would produce their inventions and everyone would make loads of money.

“Well, the other lawyer, let’s call him the Mayflower Lawyer for ease of identification, was consumed with jealousy of Minority Hire. That’s my theory anyway. It’s only speculation, but I have reason to believe in its accuracy because, how shall I say it, I am privy to insider information.”

“Well, the other lawyer, let’s call him the Mayflower Lawyer for ease of identification, was consumed with jealousy of Minority Hire. That’s my theory anyway. It’s only speculation, but I have reason to believe in its accuracy because, how shall I say it, I am privy to insider information.”

The real interesting thing here, the conundrum that needs to be deciphered, is why these two lawyers who disliked, even hated each other—yes, I don’t think hate would be too strong a word here—why these two individuals who hated each other so much nevertheless decided to be partners.

“Anything. It doesn’t have to be ‘wanting’ another person, as you so crudely but not incorrectly put it.”

It takes me a few disconcerting seconds to realize that what I’m hearing is in the present and that the sound is emanating from the cell phone in my pocket.

It takes me a few disconcerting seconds to realize that what I’m hearing is in the present and that the sound is emanating from the cell phone in my pocket.

Marcelo on the other hand is stuck in a mire of questions.

It is as if Marcelo ate the apple from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, but Wendell was too smart to fall for the wiles of the serpent.

It is as if she is thinking for a moment about whether opening the door is the right thing to do. Then she opens it and beckons me to come in.

There are notes and chords that jar with the notes and chords that precede them, but then a few seconds later what seems dissonant turns out to be part of a basic melody, the original Bach-like melody that has been there all along, hidden but constant.

If there are various documents under the same category, you’ll need to put them in some kind of order, you know, chronological or by author or by recipient.

Wendell lifts a sheaf of papers and reads from it.

But there were times when no matter how hard she tried she could not discern my logic.

For the past year I have been sorting them by the music’s predominant emotion: joy, sorrow, longing, loneliness, serenity, anger.

Half of her face is intact but the other side is missing.

Now, here in the dark, the envelope with the picture of the girl on my desk, I understand what it was about that portrait of Jesus that so captivated my attention that all I could do when I entered Abba’s room was stare at it.

Namu can hear the turmoil in my mind and is offering comfort.

Then I try to block out the rushing thoughts by remembering a favorite piece of Scripture, but the remembering is not focused. It has a life of its own and what it presents are lines from different parts of Scriptures, senseless and disconnected, like an inner Tower of Babel.