A Love Forbidden Read online

A LOVE FORBIDDEN

  by

  Alfred J. Garrotto

  Second Edition

  Copyright 2011 by Alfred J. Garrotto

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission of the Author, except where permitted by law.

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  1

  Leah Barton was an expert at the school drop-off maneuver. Arriving at Golden Gate Academy, she double-parked her new '88 Volvo station wagon on the bustling street. "Okay, kids. Here we are." By the time she turned to face them, Teddy hung over the seat back, ready to kiss his mother goodbye.

  He was already several inches taller than Leah. On his upper lip, thickening blonde hair heralded approaching manhood. "Bye, Mom." He clipped the words, firing them like rapid-fire gunshots. "Give 'em hell-- I mean, heck, today."

  "That's better," Leah said with a fleeting frown. "I'll do my best."

  "You look beautiful today, Mom."

  "Thanks, Teddy. Must be this turquoise blouse." Leah touched her collar. His compliment pleased her. She had gotten up earlier than usual to give herself the extra prep time that television appearances demanded. Radio was easier. It let her focus on her human rights message, without concern about how she'd look for television's all-seeing, unflattering cameras. Fortunately, this was a "home game," as she called her San Francisco interview dates. Local shows caused the least disruption in the family's routine and allowed her to perform the preliminaries at home, instead of an anonymous hotel room.

  "Love ya," Teddy called, as he stepped out the traffic-side door into the mid-October sunshine. He wove his way toward the school gate through other drop-off cars that crammed the narrow one-way street. Stopping, he turned back and flashed the American Sign Language hand symbol for "I love you."

  Leah repeated the gesture. Teddy's unselfconscious affection brought always-welcome rainbows to her days.

  Monica put her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her cheek. Although only two years behind her brother in age, her pixyish gymnast's frame made her appear much younger. In contrast to Teddy's blond hair, Monica's was as black as Snow White's. "Can't I go with you?" she pleaded, giving it one more try before hitting the pavement.

  An impatient parent honked from the rear. Leah glanced at her watch. "No, dear." She kissed her daughter on the forehead and rubbed away a faint smear of red with her thumb. "I'll pick you up at three sharp."

  Monica slid across the seat to the curbside door. "I love you, Mom," she said and dashed toward the red brick building that housed Golden Gate Academy.

  "Love you too." Before pulling out into the traffic, Leah risked yet another honk to steal a glance in the rear-view mirror. She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and eyed her features. Prone to self-criticism, Leah assessed her reflection through the mirror of Walt's love: unblemished skin, high cheekbones, finely curved jaw, a straight nose directing attention to soft lips and a small dimple at the point of her chin. Achieving the natural, not overly made-up, look that suited her best took only modest applications of the Scandinavian skin care products she had used for many years.

  Having passed this brief inspection, she was ready to focus on her nine a.m. interview with Jeff Nelson on "SFO in the AM." With a shift of mental focus, she went from being the mother of two growing, challenging kids to being national spokesperson for Prisoners of Conscience International.

  * * *

  Father Javier de Córdova knew nothing of Leah Barton's October seventeenth television interview. In fact, he knew little about the life of single American mothers who struggled to balance parenthood and career and still find time for a personal life. He had other things on his mind when he got out of bed that Monday morning. It was October 17th, National Independence Day in his native Santo Sangre and a festive holiday in his village of Santa Teresita, located high on the slopes of the Chuchuán volcano.

  The day started off like every other Independence Day. After the usual cold-water shower, he ran a comb through his dark, naturally wavy hair that receded just a bit more on the left side than on the right. The straight razor with which he shaved was the one his soldier-father had used for many years before his death. Javier then dressed in a clean black cassock and made his way across the already crowded plaza to the old church, which the ladies' Altar Society had spruced up for the occasion with mounds of brightly-colored passion flowers and clusters of potted palm trees.

  As pastor of Santa Teresita Parish, Javier presided at the festive morning Mass, preaching a stirring homily on patriotism. "Love of country begins with loving your fellow countrymen," he told his congregation. "And, who are your countrymen?" With a welcoming smile, he gestured toward the mayor and other village dignitaries sitting in the front pew. "Not just President Montenegro and our honorable public officials who wear their well-deserved medals and insignia at celebrations in the capital and in our village."

  The mayor acknowledged the compliment with solemn nod. His pewmates sat a bit taller and, by reflex, adjusted the symbols of their offices.

  "The countrymen you are called to love are those who live in your own homes. They sit beside you here at Mass this morning."

  This was Javier's standard Independence Day theme, but he meant every word of it. Nothing had happened recently in the capital, his highland region, or the world to make him believe the message was no longer needed. He closed the liturgy by leading a rousing rendition of "De Colores" sung in his strong, if not always on-key, baritone.

  A parade followed the Mass. Javier stood on the front steps of the church shoulder to shoulder with His Excellency the Mayor. First in line was a group of grade school children stepping smartly to the monotonous beat of the local high school drum corps.

  After the marchers, came the obligatory procession of local religious and social organizations with their colorful array of banners and sashes. Proud members carried garlanded statues of favorite saints, life-sized pictures of the president, or some hero of the 1901 independence movement that severed the island's colonial relationship with Spain. Although the day was rapidly warming, Javier waved and sprinkled each passing group with holy water.

  These were his people, his friends and neighbors. He had ministered to them and them alone since his ordination seventeen years ago.

  * * *

  Both Leah Barton and Father Javier de Córdova were on Juana Santiago's mind that mid-October Independence Day. It hadn't been a good week for Juana's boss, the president of Santo Sangre.

  Juana had been a bright, beautiful Georgetown graduate when she first came to work for President Montenegro's chief political adviser. That was shortly after the 1970 coup that brought Montenegro and his two fellow colonels and co-conspirators to power. The new assistant immediately attracted the president's eye. It didn't take him long to get her in his bed. As a reward, he promoted her to the official position of private secretary to the president. Her unofficial role--Montenegro's most trusted counselor.

  For eighteen years, Juana had accompanied him everywhere, except to his horse ranch and private home, which Señora Anastasia Montenegro y Castillo ruled as tyrannically as her husband ruled his island nation. Juana's absolute loyalty to the president was admirable or dangerous, depending on one's point of view. Bureaucrats at all levels of the government understood that the road to the president's ear passed through his secretary's office.
Being in Juana Santiago's good graces became prerequisite to gaining presidential favor. Conversely, if you made Juana your enemy, it was time to transfer your money to a Miami bank account.

  Juana had advised Montenegro against spending thousands of cruzeros wining and dining a delegation of European and American bankers. Determined to win them over, the president rejected her counsel. Dutifully, she sat to the president's left at the elegantly silvered and crystaled table in the state dining room. When the money men announced over dessert that they would have a hard time convincing their directorates to extend further credit, the news came as no surprise.

  With an air of nonchalance, the president disguised his fury. Puffing to life a fresh Cuban cigar, he let his chestnut eyes range from one man to the next. "Gentlemen, perhaps you can tell me why." It was more a demand than an inquiry.

  Apparently, the bankers had elected Herr Wenger of the Central Bank of Bonn to justify the bad news. "I speak only for the firms we collectively represent, Your Excellency, but frankly there is a new spirit in international banking today. It is not like the '70s anymore, when money was plentiful and lenders willing, eager even, to invest in developing nations. If it were up to me personally, there would be no problem, but as responsible fiduciaries, we must be sensitive to our key investors' growing displeasure with your administration and certain of its policies."

  Herr Wenger paused to dig out another spoonful of Le Mystére, an elegant ice cream, almond, and fudge dessert that had been the hottest (or coolest) delight in Paris last summer. "An increasingly negative balance of payments, makes your country a not-so-attractive and riskier investment these days. That is the major reason for our negative assessment."

  Wenger paused to let his explanation sink in. "In addition, we are feeling pressure from a growing element among our stockholders who are . . . shall we say, uneasy about the deteriorating state of human rights in Santo Sangre."

  Montenegro's face revealed none of the anti-European, anti-American bigotry boiling beneath the surface of his calm exterior. "Friends, I am amazed that you could have been so taken in by the slanderous rumors, emanating mostly from the Amsterdam headquarters of Prisoners of Conscience International and its puppet affiliates around the western world, particularly in the USA and Italy." He spoke in an almost fatherly manner. After a long pause, the president resumed his tactful defense. "I thought surely, Herr Wenger, that men of your position and intelligence would be able to separate fact from POCI's idle and malicious gossip."

  Juana had given the plump, balding Wenger and his smug colleagues credit for too much intelligence. She considered the Americans even bigger hypocrites than the Europeans.

  Montenegro picked his words carefully, handling each as if it were a hand-grenade with the pin pulled out. "And, what if I were to make . . . adjustments . . . to our way of doing things?"

  Wenger's expression didn't change. "Of course, we would take any action on your part as cause to reevaluate our conclusions."

  Juana hated to see a man of Montenegro's greatness reduced to groveling before his inferiors. They wouldn't treat a president of the United States or the leader of the Soviet Union this way, or the oil-rich kings of the Middle East.

  "Then, let's meet again in the morning," the president said, "before you depart our beautiful country. I will confer with my cabinet tonight. Perhaps, there are stones we have not yet turned in our efforts to satisfy your institutions."

  2

  A swarm of butterflies danced in Leah's stomach, as she waited off-set among the snake-like cables, banks of spotlights, and robotic cameras. Three minutes to showtime. How her life had changed since she accepted the position of USA director of Prisoners of Conscience International three years ago. From behind-the-scenes, part-time volunteer, Leah had become a strong voice for justice and a sought-after veteran of the local and national talk-show circuit. Yet, before every public appearance, she battled these winged spasms. They only abated when she began discussing the cause that, after her family, was the most important thing in her life.

  Kati, Jeff Nelson's efficient assistant producer, stepped to the foot of the movable bleacher seats to "warm up" the crowd. She provided upbeat instruction on live-audience etiquette and told everyone to applaud, whistle, and yell when Jeff Nelson himself made his charismatic entrance.

  The set was a circular rotating platform, partitioned to provide three focal areas: den, kitchen, and exercise room. The den, now lighted and facing the audience, was appointed with bookshelves, a curtained window, and photo art depicting recognizable Northern California landmarks. In the middle of the room a low table separated two comfortable armchairs.

  Leah took this time to review her own set of last-minute instructions. After her most recent TV appearance her secretary Sandy had pointed out her boss's nervous habit of tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her left ear. Leah knew that a steady gaze, conviction in her voice, and the absence of nervous tics helped support the truth of her words and sway audience opinion. "Don't play with your hair!" was the last of a litany of instructions Leah issued to herself.

  At one minute to nine, a hush settled over the studio. The second hand wound again to twelve, and the audience exploded right on cue, as the good-looking talk show host trotted onto the set.

  "We're on, kids!" Leah breathed, summoning all her powers of communication and persuasion to the ready.

  When the applause subsided, also on cue, Jeff Nelson went into his introduction of the day's featured guest. "We are honored to have with us this morning the Director of the USA Chapter of Prisoners of Conscience International. And she's based right here in our own beautiful City-by-the-Bay." The words spilled from him like rich olive oil tumbling over a leafy salad. "We'll be discussing the disturbing topic of political prisoners around the world and what we, as ordinary citizens, can do to help release people unjustly imprisoned. So let's give a warm SFO welcome to Leah Sinclair Barton!"

  Leah exhaled the breath she had held for the last minute-and-a-half. Letting her facial muscles relax into a pleasant smile, she stepped confidently onto the carpeted platform. She shook hands with her much taller host, who invited her into an upholstered chair to his left. Charged and ready to go, she crossed her right leg over her left and composed her hands in the lap of her wool skirt.

  "Tell me first of all, Leah-- May I call you Leah?" Jeff's tone was professionally intimate.

  "Certainly."

  "First of all, can you tell us what Prisoners of Conscience International is?"

  "We're a non-politically aligned organization dedicated to exposing, opposing, and eradicating human rights violations and imprisonment."

  Jeff shook his head. "That's an ambitious goal."

  Leah was accustomed to being dismissed as a dreamer, tilting at distant, unreachable windmills. "Ambitious, yes. Not unrealistic." In a series of media seminars on how to get your point across during a live interview, she had learned the art of getting her message across in twenty-second bites, or less. "Beyond twenty seconds," a media coach had told her, "people start counting the flowers in the vase on the table next to you."

  "Jeff," she said, looking first at him, then into the camera. "Half of the one hundred and fifty-four member nations in the UN hold political prisoners, contrary to the United Nations Charter. Many of these countries accept death as the penalty for politically related offenses. At least sixty nations sanction torture as a method of punishment or to obtain confessions."

  Jeff seemed stunned by Leah's summary. Had her words had genuinely moved him? Or, was he such a polished interviewer that he could convincingly feign sincerity? "I had no idea," he said. "Tell us what you're doing to change things."

  "In 1965," Leah continued, "a Belfast human rights advocate, Nathaniel Roundtree, called together a handful of Protestant and Catholic professionals who were disgusted with the rights abuses in Northern Ireland and other parts of the world. They didn't know if they could do anything to stop the atrocities, but they had
to try. The only weapon at their disposal was more powerful and more feared than the missiles in any military arsenal on earth."

  Leah paused to let Jeff and the audience guess the answer. "I give up," he smiled, giving her the opening she needed.

  "Information--the simple truth." Leah stopped her hand, just as it reached for the few strands of hair begging to be tucked behind her left ear.

  "We take our freedom so much for granted," Jeff said with pursed lips and a slight shake of his head.

  Leah observed her interviewer with some amusement. Of all the talk show hosts she had met, his boyish mannerisms and speech seemed the most practiced.

  Jeff leaned back in his chair and ran his hand along the side of his head, careful not to displace a single reddish-blond hair. "I want to pick up on something you said. If Prisoners of Conscience International--"

  "We use the acronym, pronounced 'poh-see,' for short," Leah interjected.

  "If POCI was founded in Belfast, why is it headquartered in Amsterdam?"

  "People on both sides of the conflict in Northern Ireland believed in Mr. Roundtree's ideas, but found it too dangerous to promote them openly in that political climate." Leah cocked her head slightly to the right, as she spoke, maintaining steady eye contact with Jeff. "In 1970, the leadership decided to move to Amsterdam. They found an ideal location across the canal from Anne Frank's house, which is an international symbol of the kind of injustice we oppose."

  The floor director gave Jeff a hand sign indicating it was time for a commercial break. "Leah, I'm anxious to find out how you got involved with POCI." Smoothly, he turned to face the camera. "First, we have to do some business. Then, we'll be right back with more of this important and fascinating story."

  Leah welcomed the opportunity to dab the perspiration from her forehead and relax her neck and shoulder muscles. She took a discreet peak at her compact mirror to make sure her lip gloss hadn't smeared.

  After the break, she resumed her personal story. "The summer after my junior year at Cal, I spent a few weeks traveling alone in Europe. That was 1971. I'd been totally involved in the anti-war turmoil on campus and just wanted to get away from it all. Amsterdam had the reputation for being the most tolerant city in Europe toward student-travelers, so I migrated there." She sensed the first-come-first-seated audience gradually warming to her.