www.harlotssauce.com Guest Writers Page |
Spread your ashes yesterday at Bolinas, where you wanted.
The date was my choice: the fortieth day after your death. I
selected it for the lore: Buddhist souls, they say, leave the
earth and continue on into the circle of transmigration. For
Christians, it’s the day Jesus ascended. Seemed as good a
time as any to let you go.
A storm threatened offshore, vast blue masses of cloud in high
winds, the beach hazed and empty but for us. Everyone came
wrapped in weather gear: Marcie and Margaret, Jackie and
Vivian, Laura, Dawn, Steph, Loreto and Mo, Juliet. Just the
eleven of us. Plus the dogs.
Tillie, your favorite, thundered up and down the beach, barking
in the wind. Bugsy chased his ball and hit everybody up for
love, of course. Katie, alpha dog, big-sistered the other two. I
got the sense they knew something I didn’t, Tillie in particular—
that you were there with us. Happy.
I hugged your urn, walking the beach a little ahead of the
others, not wanting to let go of you and yet knowing that was
the deal. So little choice anymore, in what to do.
There were no speeches, you’d have liked that. But as the
wind blew cold and hard, the roar of the surf in our ears, I
donned the rubber boots you used to wear in the garden, lifted
the lid to your urn, cut the plastic, and sifted your ashes, dense
and gray-white, into the surf. They left a trail for a moment,
reaching shoreward just once as I ran my fingers through
them. Whispered my farewell. Then the waves took you.
We tossed rose petals, some from your garden, across the
shore. Mo took off her shoes and socks to run the surf, trailing
petals. We all had lunch together after but it was mechanical,
for me at any rate, sitting there clutching the cement sack of
my grief. Thought about returning with the dogs alone but the
storm had reached a nasty pitch, rain the size of quarters and
growing wind. So goodbyes were said and home we went, in
the miserable weather, your ashes at our back swirling in the
wild sea, as you wished.
The next morning, on the forty-first day, I awoke early. The
moment I cracked my eyes, I said out loud, “She’s gone”—
knowing it as I hadn’t before, distinct, like stone. Even the
dogs felt it. They played without heart then collapsed in the
hall, paws on chins, sighing. Except Katie, the one we’ve had
since our own beginning. She sat sadly alert, head up just a
little, blinking. Waiting.
The date was my choice: the fortieth day after your death. I
selected it for the lore: Buddhist souls, they say, leave the
earth and continue on into the circle of transmigration. For
Christians, it’s the day Jesus ascended. Seemed as good a
time as any to let you go.
A storm threatened offshore, vast blue masses of cloud in high
winds, the beach hazed and empty but for us. Everyone came
wrapped in weather gear: Marcie and Margaret, Jackie and
Vivian, Laura, Dawn, Steph, Loreto and Mo, Juliet. Just the
eleven of us. Plus the dogs.
Tillie, your favorite, thundered up and down the beach, barking
in the wind. Bugsy chased his ball and hit everybody up for
love, of course. Katie, alpha dog, big-sistered the other two. I
got the sense they knew something I didn’t, Tillie in particular—
that you were there with us. Happy.
I hugged your urn, walking the beach a little ahead of the
others, not wanting to let go of you and yet knowing that was
the deal. So little choice anymore, in what to do.
There were no speeches, you’d have liked that. But as the
wind blew cold and hard, the roar of the surf in our ears, I
donned the rubber boots you used to wear in the garden, lifted
the lid to your urn, cut the plastic, and sifted your ashes, dense
and gray-white, into the surf. They left a trail for a moment,
reaching shoreward just once as I ran my fingers through
them. Whispered my farewell. Then the waves took you.
We tossed rose petals, some from your garden, across the
shore. Mo took off her shoes and socks to run the surf, trailing
petals. We all had lunch together after but it was mechanical,
for me at any rate, sitting there clutching the cement sack of
my grief. Thought about returning with the dogs alone but the
storm had reached a nasty pitch, rain the size of quarters and
growing wind. So goodbyes were said and home we went, in
the miserable weather, your ashes at our back swirling in the
wild sea, as you wished.
The next morning, on the forty-first day, I awoke early. The
moment I cracked my eyes, I said out loud, “She’s gone”—
knowing it as I hadn’t before, distinct, like stone. Even the
dogs felt it. They played without heart then collapsed in the
hall, paws on chins, sighing. Except Katie, the one we’ve had
since our own beginning. She sat sadly alert, head up just a
little, blinking. Waiting.
The Fortieth Day, then The Forty-First David Corbett |
Excerpts from the Author's Note on Blood of Paradise David Corbett |
I conceived Blood of Paradise after reading Philoctetes, a
spare and relatively obscure drama by Sophocles. In the
original, an oracle advises the Greeks that victory over the
Trojans is impossible without the bow of Herakles.
Unfortunately, it's in the hands of Philoctetes, whom the
Greeks abandoned on a barren island ten years earlier, when
he was bitten by a venomous snake while the Achaean fleet
harbored briefly on its way to Troy.
Odysseus, architect of the desertion scheme, must now return,
reclaim the bow, and bring both the weapon and its owner to
Troy. For a companion, he chooses Neoptolemus, the son of
his slain archrival, Achilles.
Neoptolemus, being young, still holds fast to the heroic virtues
embodied by his dead father, and believes they can appeal to
Philoctetes as a warrior. But Odysseus—knowing Philoctetes
will want revenge against all the Greeks, he himself in
particular—convinces Neoptolemus that trickery and deceit
will serve their purposes far better. In essence, he corrupts
Neoptolemus, who subsequently deceives Philoctetes into
relinquishing his bitterness to reenlist in the cause against
Troy.
The tale has an intriguing postscript: It turns out to be the
corrupted Neoptolemus, by killing King Priam at his altar
during the sack of Troy, who brings down a curse upon the
Greeks even as they are perfecting their victory.
This story suggested several themes, which I then molded to
my own purposes: the role of corruption in our concept of
expedience, the need of young men to prove themselves
worthy in the eyes of even morally suspect elders (or
especially them), and the curse of a hard-won ambition.
I saw in the Greek situation a presentiment of America's
dilemma at the close of the Cold War: finally achieving
unrivaled leadership of the globe, but at the same time being
cursed with the hatred of millions. Though we have showered
the world with aid, too often we have done so through
conspicuously corrupt, repressive, even murderous regimes,
where the elites in charge predictably siphoned off much of
that aid into their own pockets. Why did we look the other way
during the violence and thievery? The regimes in question
were reliably anticommunist, crucial to our need for cheap oil,
or otherwise amenable to American strategic or commercial
interests.
We live in a dangerous world, it is said. Hard, unpleasant
choices must be made.
But policymakers in Washington and others in their camp have
gone beyond even this, embracing a resurgent American
exceptionalism as the antidote to the kind of moral self-
reflection, which they consider weak and defeatist, that asks if
we might not frankly deserve some of the hatred directed at
us. Instead, they see a revanchist America marching boldly
into the new century with unapologetic military power,
uninhibited free-market capitalism, and evangelical fervor—
most immediately to bring "freedom" to the Middle East.
The historical template for this proposed transformation is
Central America—specifically El Salvador, trumpeted as "the
final battleground of the Cold War," and championed as one of
our greatest foreign policy successes: the crucible in which
American greatness was re-forged, banishing the ghosts of
Vietnam forever.
There's a serious problem with this formulation, however: It
requires an almost hallucinatory misreading of history.
I conceived of Blood of Paradise as a moral thriller—a term
often used to describe the recent work of Denise Mina, whom
I greatly admire—and I have been overwhelming flattered that
several of my fellow writers, such as George Pelecanos,
Denise Hamilton, John Connolly, and Luis Alberto Urea, have
likened the book to the work of Graham Greene and Robert
Stone (also writers whose work has been greatly inspirational
and influential). In it, I've attempted to prove the lie to the
claim by men like Vice President Dick Cheney and former
Defense Secretary Don Rumsfeld, that our Cold War
"success" in El Salvador would prove a reliable template for
victory in Iraq. Such remarks almost wholly ignore the true
state of affairs in El Salvador today, which I try to portray in
the book.
I also have attempted to show how all these failings have their
roots in the conflicts that gave rise to the civil war, conflicts
that continue to haunt El Salvador today. As one Salvadoran
cleric remarked: "We signed the peace agreement, but we
never lived the peace."
Blood of Paradise focuses on Jude McManus, the son of a
corrupt Chicago cop, who tries to escape the family scandal
first in the military, then by finding work as an executive
protection specialist—a bodyguard—in El Salvador. He is
charged with the safekeeping of a truly decent man, Axel
Odelberg, an American hydrologist who refuses to whitewash
the aquifer depletion caused by a soft drink bottling plant
operated by a cabal of local businessmen, several of whom are
linked not only to death squads but an international child
prostitution ring.
Jude's task is complicated by the sudden appearance of an old
cohort of his father's, Bill Malvasio, who fled to Central
America rather than face the charges against him. He seems
to be a changed man, and Jude is moved by the depth and
honesty of his regret. Then Malvasio asks a favor, and slowly
draws Jude into a twisted conspiracy that threatens to destroy
everything and everyone he has vowed to protect.
* * *
The Murder of Gilberto Soto
As I was writing the book, a particularly chilling and relevant
act of violence took place in El Salvador, an event that not
only underscored the deterioration of civil society in that
country, but eerily echoed elements of the novel's plot: the
murder of an American—in this case, the murder of a
Teamster named José Gilberto Soto.
He was visiting family in El Salvador—and also hoped to meet
with port drivers to discuss possible plans to unionize—when
gunmen shot him dead outside his mother's house in Usulután.
Many of the trucking companies that would have been
affected by unionization are run by ex-military officers, but the
police investigation never pursued this. Instead, two gang
members were pressed and possibly tortured into confessing
that the victim's mother-in-law, who had less than a hundred
dollars to her name, hired them to kill Soto out of some vague,
illogical family rancor.
Two of the three defendants, Soto's mother-in-law and the
alleged triggerman, were acquitted in February 2006. The man
alleged to have supplied the murder weapon was convicted,
despite the fact the Human Rights Ombudsman, in her
scathing critique of the investigation—an investigation which
was not conducted by the local prosecutor, but the PNC's
notoriously corrupt Directorate for Investigating Organized
Crime (DECO)—specifically noted that no chain of evidence
existed concerning the gun and bullets.
This murder took place during the American debate over
ratification of the Central American Free Trade Agreement
(CAFTA), and only by considerable arm-twisting was the Bush
administration able to secure the necessary votes for passage.
(CAFTA passed the House by a mere two votes.) How can
there be free trade, opponents argued, if men and women
seeking a just wage can be murdered with impunity? But such
arguments did not prevail.
For more information on Mr. Soto's murder, the investigation,
and the Teamsters' efforts to obtain justice, go to the union's
website.
spare and relatively obscure drama by Sophocles. In the
original, an oracle advises the Greeks that victory over the
Trojans is impossible without the bow of Herakles.
Unfortunately, it's in the hands of Philoctetes, whom the
Greeks abandoned on a barren island ten years earlier, when
he was bitten by a venomous snake while the Achaean fleet
harbored briefly on its way to Troy.
Odysseus, architect of the desertion scheme, must now return,
reclaim the bow, and bring both the weapon and its owner to
Troy. For a companion, he chooses Neoptolemus, the son of
his slain archrival, Achilles.
Neoptolemus, being young, still holds fast to the heroic virtues
embodied by his dead father, and believes they can appeal to
Philoctetes as a warrior. But Odysseus—knowing Philoctetes
will want revenge against all the Greeks, he himself in
particular—convinces Neoptolemus that trickery and deceit
will serve their purposes far better. In essence, he corrupts
Neoptolemus, who subsequently deceives Philoctetes into
relinquishing his bitterness to reenlist in the cause against
Troy.
The tale has an intriguing postscript: It turns out to be the
corrupted Neoptolemus, by killing King Priam at his altar
during the sack of Troy, who brings down a curse upon the
Greeks even as they are perfecting their victory.
This story suggested several themes, which I then molded to
my own purposes: the role of corruption in our concept of
expedience, the need of young men to prove themselves
worthy in the eyes of even morally suspect elders (or
especially them), and the curse of a hard-won ambition.
I saw in the Greek situation a presentiment of America's
dilemma at the close of the Cold War: finally achieving
unrivaled leadership of the globe, but at the same time being
cursed with the hatred of millions. Though we have showered
the world with aid, too often we have done so through
conspicuously corrupt, repressive, even murderous regimes,
where the elites in charge predictably siphoned off much of
that aid into their own pockets. Why did we look the other way
during the violence and thievery? The regimes in question
were reliably anticommunist, crucial to our need for cheap oil,
or otherwise amenable to American strategic or commercial
interests.
We live in a dangerous world, it is said. Hard, unpleasant
choices must be made.
But policymakers in Washington and others in their camp have
gone beyond even this, embracing a resurgent American
exceptionalism as the antidote to the kind of moral self-
reflection, which they consider weak and defeatist, that asks if
we might not frankly deserve some of the hatred directed at
us. Instead, they see a revanchist America marching boldly
into the new century with unapologetic military power,
uninhibited free-market capitalism, and evangelical fervor—
most immediately to bring "freedom" to the Middle East.
The historical template for this proposed transformation is
Central America—specifically El Salvador, trumpeted as "the
final battleground of the Cold War," and championed as one of
our greatest foreign policy successes: the crucible in which
American greatness was re-forged, banishing the ghosts of
Vietnam forever.
There's a serious problem with this formulation, however: It
requires an almost hallucinatory misreading of history.
I conceived of Blood of Paradise as a moral thriller—a term
often used to describe the recent work of Denise Mina, whom
I greatly admire—and I have been overwhelming flattered that
several of my fellow writers, such as George Pelecanos,
Denise Hamilton, John Connolly, and Luis Alberto Urea, have
likened the book to the work of Graham Greene and Robert
Stone (also writers whose work has been greatly inspirational
and influential). In it, I've attempted to prove the lie to the
claim by men like Vice President Dick Cheney and former
Defense Secretary Don Rumsfeld, that our Cold War
"success" in El Salvador would prove a reliable template for
victory in Iraq. Such remarks almost wholly ignore the true
state of affairs in El Salvador today, which I try to portray in
the book.
I also have attempted to show how all these failings have their
roots in the conflicts that gave rise to the civil war, conflicts
that continue to haunt El Salvador today. As one Salvadoran
cleric remarked: "We signed the peace agreement, but we
never lived the peace."
Blood of Paradise focuses on Jude McManus, the son of a
corrupt Chicago cop, who tries to escape the family scandal
first in the military, then by finding work as an executive
protection specialist—a bodyguard—in El Salvador. He is
charged with the safekeeping of a truly decent man, Axel
Odelberg, an American hydrologist who refuses to whitewash
the aquifer depletion caused by a soft drink bottling plant
operated by a cabal of local businessmen, several of whom are
linked not only to death squads but an international child
prostitution ring.
Jude's task is complicated by the sudden appearance of an old
cohort of his father's, Bill Malvasio, who fled to Central
America rather than face the charges against him. He seems
to be a changed man, and Jude is moved by the depth and
honesty of his regret. Then Malvasio asks a favor, and slowly
draws Jude into a twisted conspiracy that threatens to destroy
everything and everyone he has vowed to protect.
* * *
The Murder of Gilberto Soto
As I was writing the book, a particularly chilling and relevant
act of violence took place in El Salvador, an event that not
only underscored the deterioration of civil society in that
country, but eerily echoed elements of the novel's plot: the
murder of an American—in this case, the murder of a
Teamster named José Gilberto Soto.
He was visiting family in El Salvador—and also hoped to meet
with port drivers to discuss possible plans to unionize—when
gunmen shot him dead outside his mother's house in Usulután.
Many of the trucking companies that would have been
affected by unionization are run by ex-military officers, but the
police investigation never pursued this. Instead, two gang
members were pressed and possibly tortured into confessing
that the victim's mother-in-law, who had less than a hundred
dollars to her name, hired them to kill Soto out of some vague,
illogical family rancor.
Two of the three defendants, Soto's mother-in-law and the
alleged triggerman, were acquitted in February 2006. The man
alleged to have supplied the murder weapon was convicted,
despite the fact the Human Rights Ombudsman, in her
scathing critique of the investigation—an investigation which
was not conducted by the local prosecutor, but the PNC's
notoriously corrupt Directorate for Investigating Organized
Crime (DECO)—specifically noted that no chain of evidence
existed concerning the gun and bullets.
This murder took place during the American debate over
ratification of the Central American Free Trade Agreement
(CAFTA), and only by considerable arm-twisting was the Bush
administration able to secure the necessary votes for passage.
(CAFTA passed the House by a mere two votes.) How can
there be free trade, opponents argued, if men and women
seeking a just wage can be murdered with impunity? But such
arguments did not prevail.
For more information on Mr. Soto's murder, the investigation,
and the Teamsters' efforts to obtain justice, go to the union's
website.
I |
II |
For Previous Guest Writer's Pages, Click HERE |
| To read the entire Author's Note and more on Blood of Paradise, click on David's byline in the article. |
| For David Corbett's Podcast Interview, CLICK HERE |