When Heaven Weeps (16 page)

Jan glanced over the large oak desk, empty except for the small stack of messages Nicki had referred to, and headed back out. The ministry's administration was handled almost entirely by the staff now. And with Karen at the helm of public relations, he was relegated to showing up and dazzling the crowds, giving his lectures, but not much more. That and worrying about how to sustain this monster he'd created.

He opened the door to the conference room. “Hello, my friends. Mind if I join in?”

Karen stood from the conference table and walked toward him, brown eyes sparkling above a soft smile. Her hair rested delicately on a bright blue dress. Goodness, she was beautiful.

“Hello, Jan.”

“Hello, Karen. Welcome back.” She reached him and he kissed her cheek. The thought of an openly romantic relationship in the office still felt awkward. Although it hardly should; she was going to be his wife. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you,” she said quietly. She glanced over his choice of clothing and smiled, a tad disingenuous, he thought. “So I take it you've been playing today.”

“I guess you could call it that. I was at the park.”

She mouthed a silent,
Ahhh
, as if that put the puzzle together for her.

Roald Barnes grinned a pleasant smile with all the maturity and grace expected of a graying elder statesman. He wore a black tie cinched tight around a starched collar. “Hello, Jan,” he said.

Jan looked at Karen. “How was the meeting this morning? Still on speaking terms with our publisher?”

“The meetings, plural, were . . . how should I put it? Interesting.” She was slipping into her professional skin now. She could do it at a moment's notice—one second the beautiful woman, the next a sharp negotiator leveling a rare authority. At times it was intimidating.

“Bracken and Holmes refused the seventh printing.”

“They did, huh? My, my. And what does this mean?” He crossed his legs and sat back.

She took a breath and exhaled deliberately. “It means we have to face some facts. Sales have faded to a trickle.”

He looked at Roald. The older man's grin had all but vanished. “She's right, Jan. Things have slowed considerably.”

“You think I don't know this? What are you saying?”

“We are saying that
The Dance of the Dead
is nearly dead.”

“Dead?”

The word seemed to throw a switch somewhere in Jan's mind. He buried an urge to snap at the man and immediately wondered at the anger he felt. The man's choice of words could have been better, but he was only speaking the same truth that had lurked in these halls for weeks now.

“What happened to
May she live forever?
Things of this nature don't just die, Roald. They have a life of their own.”

“Not in this country, they don't. If people aren't buying—”

“It's not simply a matter of people buying. I've said so a thousand times. I say it at every interview.”

Jan was suddenly feeling very hot in this small room without really knowing why. Roald knew well Jan's basic resentment with characterizing the success of the book in mere numbers. After all, the book was about God. Between every page there was the voice of God, screaming out to the reader; insisting that he was real and interested and desperate to be known. How could such a message be reduced to numbers?

“I think what Roald's trying to say,” Karen interjected with a firm glance over to Roald, “is that on the business end of things our income's drying up. Another printing would have helped.”

“You know very well, Jan, that what's hot one year may be cold the next,” Roald said. “We've enjoyed five enlightening years. But enlightenment doesn't pay the mortgage. And the last time I checked, your mortgage was rather significant.”

“I'm aware of the costs, my friend. Perhaps you forget that this story was bought with blood. With blood and five years in a prison that might leave you dead within a week. You may say what you like, but be careful how you say it!” Heat washed over his collar.
Easy, Jan. You have no right to be so defensive.

Roald became very still. “I stand corrected. But you also should remember that this world's filled with people who don't share your sentiments toward God. People who
committed
the very atrocities you've written about. And don't forget, it was I who made this book possible in the first place. I'm not your enemy here. In fact, I've bent over backward to help you succeed. It was I who convinced you to publish your book in the United States. It was I who first persuaded the publisher to put some marketing muscle behind the book. It was even I who brought Karen on board.”

“Yes indeed, you did. But it wasn't just you, Roald. It was the book. It was the priest's blood. It was my torture. It was God, and you should never forget that!”

“Of course it was God. But you can't just throw your own responsibility on God. We each play our part.”

“Yes, and my part was to rot for five years in a prison, begging God to forgive me for beating a priest. What was your part?”

“I don't hear any complaints about the house. Or the car, or the rest of it, for that matter. You seem pretty comfortable now, Jan, and for that you may thank me and Karen.”

“And I'd give it up in a word if it mocked the lives that purchased it.”
Would you, Jan?
“If you don't understand that, then you don't know me as well as you once thought. This mountain of metal and mortar is an abstraction to me. It's the love of God that I seek, not the sale of my books.”
At least for the most part
.

“If you drift off to obscurity, what becomes of your message then? We live in a real world, my friend, with real people who read real books and need real love.”

They sat staring at each other, silent in the wake of their outbursts. It wasn't so uncommon, really, although rarely with this intensity. Jan wanted to tell Roald that he wouldn't know real love if it bit his heart out, but he knew they'd gone far enough. Perhaps too far.

“Well, well,” Karen said softly. “Last time I checked we were all on the same side here.” She wore a thin smile, and Jan thought she might actually be proud of him for standing so firmly. It
was
inspiring, wasn't it? In a very small way it was like Nadia standing tall in Karadzic's face. In a very tiny way.

The heat of the moment dissipated like steam into the night.

“Now, like I was saying before this train derailed itself,” Karen said, “the meetings were
interesting
. I didn't say they were disastrous. Maybe I should've been a little clearer; we might have avoided this robust philosophical exchange.” She stared Jan in the eye with those beautiful brown eyes and winked. “Bracken and Holmes may have turned us down, but there are other players in this big bad world of ours. And as it turns out, I just may have found a new life for
The Dance of the Dead
, after all. No pun intended, of course.”

“Which would be?” Jan asked.

She looked at Roald, who was now smiling. So he knew it as well. Jan stared at her. “What? You've been turned down by the publisher, so what was this other meeting? You've set up another speaking tour?”

“Speaking tour? Oh, I think there will be speaking tours, my dear.” She was playing it out, and in the echoes of Jan's exchange with Roald it was playing like a sonnet.

“Then say it. You obviously know as well, Roald, so stop this nonsense and tell me.”

“Well, what would you suppose is the most ambitious way to present your book to the masses?”

“Television? You have another television appearance.”

“Yes, I'm sure there'll be more of those as well.” She leaned back and smiled. “Think big, Jan. Think as big as you can.”

He thought. He was about to tell them to get on with it when it came to him. “Film?”

“Not just film, Janjic. Feature film. A Hollywood movie.”

“A movie?” The idea spun through his head, still not connecting. What did he know of movies?

“And if we play our cards right,” Roald said, “the deal will be ours within the week.”

“And what is the deal?”

Karen lifted her pen to her mouth and tapped it on her chin. “I met with Delmont Pictures this morning—the fourth meeting, actually. They've offered to buy the movie rights to the book for five million dollars.”

“Delmont Pictures?”

“A subsidiary of Paramount. Very aggressive and loaded with cash.”

Jan sat back and looked from one to the other. If he wasn't mistaken here, they were telling him that Delmont Pictures was offering five million dollars to make a movie of the book.

“When?”

Roald chuckled. “Deal first, Jan. Schedules will come after a deal's made. Actually, it's a wonder we still have the movie rights at all. Most publishers take the rights when they first contract. There was a piece of divine intervention.”

“When did you negotiate this?”

“Over the last few weeks.”

Jan nodded, still unsure. “So you're telling me that they want to make a movie of
The Dance of the Dead
.”

Karen exchanged a quick glance with Roald. “In a matter of speaking. They want to make a movie about
you
,” Karen said, biting her pen and speaking around it. “About your whole life. From your days as a child in Sarajevo through the publishing of your book. A sort of rags-to-riches story. It's perfect! Imagine it! You couldn't fictionalize this stuff if you tried!”

The Dance of the Dead
contained his life story to some degree, of course. But it was much more a story of spiritual awakening. “Rags to riches? My story's not a rags-to-riches story.”

Roald cleared his throat and now Jan knew why the older man had taken him to task earlier. He had known this would be a sticking point—this
rags-to-riches
take on Jan's life—and now he'd already aggressively argued his position in a preemptive strike. The man was no idiot.

“Now you listen, Jan. Listen carefully. This is a deal you want to take. This is a deal that'll place your story on the hearts of untold millions who would never dream of reading your book. The kind of people who probably could use the story the most—people too busy with their own lives to take the time to read; people so thoroughly involved in mediocrity that they've never even thought about living for a cause, much less dying for one. Now”—he placed both hands on the table before him—“I realize that they want this spin of theirs on the story, but you must accept this proposal. It will save your ministry.”

“I wasn't aware that my ministry needed saving, Roald
.
”

“Well it does. It's doomed.”

It is the souls of men that are doomed, not buildings and ministries
, Jan wanted to say, but he decided against it. He'd challenged Roald enough for one day. Besides, there was a ring of truth to what the elder statesman said.

“He's right, Jan,” Karen said. “You know he's right.” It was half statement, half question.

He looked at her and saw that she was begging him.
Please, Jan, you know that there are times to play tough and there are times to trust and accept. And you can trust me, Jan, because you're more than a business partner to me. You are a man to me. Say yes.

A thought occurred to him then, looking at her. The thought that she was desperate for this deal. Perhaps as desperate for the deal as for him.

“Yes,” he said, gazing deep into her eyes. She was beautiful. She was striking and gentle and brilliant. “Maybe you're right.”

She smiled and a moment passed between them.

“You are amazing,” he said, shaking his head.

She smiled and her eyes twinkled with another statement.
We're perfect together, Jan Jovic
.

Roald lifted his coffee cup for a toast. “Now then, I'll say it again, and this time you'll understand.
The Dance of the Dead:
May she live forever.”

Jan grinned at the man and lifted his own cup. The entire meeting with the leaders now made sense. “May she live forever,” he repeated.

They laughed then. They hauled Nicki in and told her about the Delmont Pictures deal and talked through the afternoon about the new possibilities this would open up for the ministry. They even sent Steve out for some sparkling apple cider, and asked Betty, John, and Lorna to gather all the employees in the mailroom where they announced the deal. A hundred toasts and twice as many congratulations were thrown around despite Karen's caution that it wasn't finalized. Not yet
. But will it be?
Well, yes
. There you go then! Congrats! And congrats on the engagement as well. You two were born for each other.

Betty hugged John, nearly twice her size; Steve tossed his driver's cap into the air with a holler; even Lorna, the skinny conservative finance manager, surprised them all by pretending to dance with her teacup before turning beet red at their laughter.

The execution of the contract was set to move forward at breakneck speed. Assuming they could come to terms with the scope of the project as it related to Jan's life, they would sign documents in the Big Apple on Friday. Their first payment would come at signing—a clean million dollars.

“We'll have to celebrate with dinner,” Jan told Karen in a quiet moment alone.

“Yes, we will. And we have a lot to celebrate.” She winked. Every look between them seemed to drip with honey, he thought. Karen sighed. “Unfortunately I have a conference call with the New York studio at six-thirty our time. How about a late dinner or dessert?”

“I'll settle for dessert. Eight o'clock?”

“Eight it is.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her finger. “I love you, Jan Jovic.”

“And I love you, Karen.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT WASN'T until five that Jan remembered the young blonde he'd left in Ivena's care. He called Ivena on the phone.