In Search of Fate
Chapter 1: The Monastery
Upon entering the visitor’s waiting room, he found himself
confronting a complete stranger. She was a young woman around thirty years old.
Had she come directly from an office, her appearance could not have been more
appropriate—tailored suit, hair drawn into a bun, understated but elegant shoes
with no heels. In the Monastery’s austere waiting room, her presence was an
affront to its shabbiness and lack of functionality. She immediately rose from
one of the tall-backed chairs and self-assuredly put out her hand.
“Adam Questor? I . . . I’m Evelyn Wyman. Your employers asked
me to see you to . . . to find out if there was anything you need.” She
stumbled over these words, unwittingly acknowledging the awkwardness of the
situation.
Questor took her hand. “I’m sure it’s a pleasure to meet you,
but I can’t presume to know what ‘need’ my employers
think you can fill.”
For a moment, Miss Wyman’s face seemed to relax its formal
rigidity. Questor thought she was either going to blush or smile. But, instead,
she released the firm grip she had on his hand and motioned to one of the
chairs.
“Please sit down and I’ll explain.” She paused, apparently
deliberating how to begin. “Recent events and your sudden departure have
alarmed your associates. They’re worried about you and thought that I might be
of service to you. I understand John Smite was a close associate. His death—and
the circumstances of his death—must have been a shock. Perhaps you’d like to
talk about your feelings?”
“You’re a doctor I presume—a therapist or counselor, right?”
“Something like that, I’m a clinical psychiatrist. More
precisely, I’m Executive Director of the Maryland Institute of Clinical
Psychiatry.”
“You’re quite young for such a responsible position.”
“And you too are quite young for such a responsible position.
There are many people depending upon you, not just within Global
Pharmaceuticals, but around the world. Your work affects millions. I would be
honored to help in any way I can. Normally, I don’t take on clients outside of
the Institute, but when Ralph mentioned your name, I felt obligated to respond.
Please, Mr. Questor, don’t think that I’m looking for celebrity clients. I just
want to be of service in my professional capacity, especially to a person whose
work is so important. Do you understand my motivation? It’s important that you
understand that I’m here to help you deal with these recent events. Of course,
anything we discuss here I’ll hold in the strictest confidence. How do you feel
about me?”
“I don’t know you?”
A half chuckle escaped Ms. Wyman. She suppressed her
spontaneous reaction and restated her question. “I mean, about talking to me
about your feelings?”
“I’m a little conflicted between a willful suspension of
disbelief and distrust.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I can accept your purpose in being here, but I’m not sure of
Ralph’s in sending you.”
“Why, don’t you trust Ralph?” Ms. Wyman broke eye contact and momentarily looked down at her
hands. She seemed to be gathering herself to maintain her equanimity. “He seemed to have an honest concern
for your welfare.” Though spoken as a statement, her words had the inflection
of a question. “He negotiated a temporary leave for you with his Board and
personally took over your schedule until your return. Does that sound like the
actions of somebody you should distrust?”
Her question was straightforward, but Adam detected something
else in her tone. “Why did he send you?”
“I already told you what he told me. Do you suspect another
purpose?” The quizzical look on her
face was too intense to be ignored: she seemed to be really questioning whether
there might be another purpose behind Ralph’s request for her assistance.
“Well, I suppose we shall see.”
“Does that mean you’ll talk to me?” Ms. Wyman raised a
questioning brow, but there was just a trace of whimsy in her eyes.
Questor could not help being intrigued by this woman. “It
depends upon what kinds of questions you ask.”
“Okay then, let’s start with why you’re here. “
Questor avoided her eyes as he responded, “It’s quiet—no
phones, time to think.”
“But why come to a monastery?” She paused to reconsider her approach. She wanted to explain herself to this man without making him defensive. “I understand that you once studied to
become a priest. Did you come here to pray, to seek spiritual guidance or to
find the resources within yourself to deal with the death of a close friend?”
Questor surveyed his questioner as if for the first time. He
noted how erect she sat, her eyes fixed on him. Was this her professional
posture or did she really find him that worthy of her full attention. With the
palms of her hands resting on her thighs, her knees pulled tightly together,
she seemed ready to pounce on his words. “You seem to have done your homework,
Ms. Wyman. Did Ralph provide a dossier on me?”
“No,” she laughed, “but I stopped at the bookstore last night
and picked up Mason’s biography. Is it an authorized account of your life?”
“I’ve never read it. Is it any good? What sense does it make
of my life? Maybe I should read it.”
“I have only gotten through the first two chapters where he
discusses your commitment to the spiritual life and eventual falling out with
the Church hierarchy. He seemed to think that you had some kind of crisis of
faith. He said your quest for truth went beyond the answers faith provided. Is
he right about that?”
Questor turned pensive. “‘What is truth?’ Is it logically
derived from self-evident first principles as some philosophers say, or is it
the epiphany experienced with faith? Is faith the door you must open before you
can experience the truth? If so, then what door do you open? Should I be a
Catholic, a Jew, a Hindu, or a Moslem? There are many beliefs from which to
choose. The irony is that committed belief in any one of these religions has
been used to justify the death of non-believers, those ignominiously termed
infidels or heretics. If you leave judgment at the door, you are at the mercy
of priests, rabbis, gurus or mullahs for control of your life. If you believe
judgment can only be found on the other side of the door, then the question of
truth is begged at the very start of your search and you are doomed to never
answer that question in any rational way. I could not find sufficient evidence
to support a leap of faith and discovered that I was not able to trust those
who proposed such to me.”
“Then Mason was right. You did have a crisis of faith. It
seems unlikely that you should find solace in a religion you left over a decade
ago. So why come to a monastery to sort things out?”
“Perhaps my crisis was not with my faith, but with my church.
You teach children what to believe, because they need guidance. Adults have to
fend for themselves or risk becoming ciphers. But, to answer your question, a
monastery is not an unlikely place for sorting things out. Initially, the abbot
offered me quarters in the guest house. I declined his offer to share space or
schedule with the community and asked for a hermitage. He suggested the use of
this little chapel which the monks sometimes use for vigils or, on occasion, as
a hermitage. At this time there’s only one monk living the life of a hermit.
Nobody knows exactly where he sleeps, but one of the brothers brings him food
and Communion every day at the clearing in front of this little chapel. I saw
him for the first time yesterday. The brother brought me food too, but I
declined Communion. Meeting my companion in solitude was a communion in itself.
We only looked at each other, but I saw something in his gaze that I
recognized.”
“You knew him?”
“He did seem to have something to tell me; but no, I didn’t
know him. I once knew somebody like him, a man of faith who had passed through
the door and was at peace with a knowledge in which he felt secure.”
“Who was this person he reminded you of?”
“Myself.”
Questor’s inquisitor seemed puzzled at his reply. She tilted
her head at an angle, jutted her jaw forward slightly and squinted at him. At
the same time she relaxed into the back of her chair and gracefully crossed her
legs. Questor stared at her for a moment and then quickly looked away, hiding
his embarrassment.
“Mr. Questor, may I call you Adam?”
“If you like.”
“Adam, I don’t believe you’re here to find uninterrupted time
to think. This place is also a refuge from what’s out there. Perhaps you’re
looking for solace, or some kind of peace of mind. But I don’t think you can
find it by going back to a time you have long since forsaken. You must face
whatever has driven you to this isolated Monastery. I think you’re in denial.” She paused and weighed her next words
before she spoke. “Were you
especially close to John Smite? “
“We were friends. I don’t think we were especially close. His
lab was under contract to Global for key research into genetic structures of
interest to our project. Since much of what we were trying to accomplish
depended upon that research, I spent a lot of time with John. Most often I was
just a sounding board for his flights of imagination. He was brilliant. But he
was much more than a scientist. We spent many off-hours discussing everything
from the existence of God to the meaning of our individual lives. In some ways,
we were kindred souls—both searching for something. I’ll miss him.”
“Were you shocked by his suicide? It must have been difficult
for you to deal with the way he . . . Ralph said that you never returned his
message. You just disappeared from work and home. You know, it would be better
if you talked about your feelings, even if you have to confront the manner of
his death.”
“Ralph’s message only said that he took his life. Is there
more to know than the fact that he removed himself from his own existence, as
well as from all that knew him?”
“Adam, I’m sorry. I assumed you knew the details, either from
Ralph’s message or perhaps from the newspapers.”
“I’ve not read a newspaper since I left. How did he die?”
“The police have reconstructed a rather bazaar story.
Apparently, Smite planned his death meticulously. He signed a lab disposal
form, laid down in a large box used for lab animal corpses, secured its lid,
and sedated himself. The disposal technicians followed his instructions and
delivered his makeshift coffin to the furnace where it was incinerated. The
police found a hypodermic needle amongst his ashes. He left no record to
explain why he would take such action. I’m surprised the police have not
contacted you. They’ve interviewed everybody connected with Smite in order to
find out his motives. Do you have any
ideas why he would take his life in this manner?”
Questor did not reply, appearing stunned at her account of Smite’s suicide. Gradually, his body collapsed into a fetal
position in his chair, his head in his hands. His shoulders began to tremble,
and then violent shudders wrenched his body. Ms. Wyman, surprised by his
reaction, rose from her chair and stood next to him. She placed her hand on his
shoulder gently.
“Adam, I’m so sorry. It was insensitive of me to speak so
matter-of-factly. Somehow, I didn’t pick up on how close you were to Smite.”
“I wasn’t, not really. But I can’t talk right now.” Questor
suddenly rose, almost bumping into Ms. Wyman. She stepped back quickly. He
seemed ready to bolt for the door when she recovered and grabbed hold of his
arm.
“Adam, you can’t run away from these feelings. Stay with me
or at least talk to somebody. I don’t know what’s troubling you, but I would
like to help.”
Questor was surprised by her grip on his arm. It had been a
long time since any woman had physically touched him. She was strong too. The
tensing of her forehead and eyebrows riveted his gaze. He wondered: Could anybody be this earnest and not be
real? He straightened himself and addressed her more directly than at any
time since he entered the room. “What is Ralph Edwards to you? What claim does
he have on you to ask you to intercede with me?”
Ms. Wyman released her grip instantly. “Ralph is my
brother-in-law. There’s no special relationship between us other than my
sister. Elizabeth and I have always been very close and supportive of each
other. She never questioned my single-purpose pursuit of a career in clinical
psychiatry when everybody thought I was sacrificing my personal life. And I
tried not to question her judgment in marrying somebody like Ralph.”
Questor
surveyed her face searchingly, “Ms. Wyman, you just told me something about
yourself.” He continued in this direct manner, “Perhaps we could talk, but, if
we do, it’ll have to be a dialogue, a two-way exchange. You may be able to help
me, even if it’s not the help you may have anticipated. But I need to know more
about you before I can” . . . Questor
chose not to complete his sentence. Instead, he moved towards the door.
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