Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m sure they’re right: You don’t give up after one try. But when I close my eyes there’s a nameless but familiar face there, winking and grinning at how stupid I am.
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Carlos is back at work—and thank God (no questions asked, no answers given), back staying with me. Tonight when I said his plan for reviving the New C. of C. carried whiffs of conspiracy, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. I was standing at the counter, opening another bottle of Côtes du Rhone. Carlos had been taking his bath; it was easier for me to mention “conspiracy” when he was in another room. But suddenly, there he was, standing behind me, wrapped in a towel. The ends of his hair were wet and warm beads of water were sliding down his arms, on to my arms. His almost regrown mustache brushed my face. “That mentality, Malcolm, is what makes you so perfect.”
I did not even try not to tremble. Carlos is old and there are places where his skin is wrinkled but he’s lean and brown, and thick greenish veins swell over his sinewy muscles so that you can see, (and really but feel) them pulse. For a second I thought he was going to throw me to the floor—and then he was at the other end of the room, clothed in my robe.
Crossing his brave-looking, high-arched feet, he leaned against the doorjamb and said, “That lunatic fringe mind-frame is what makes you so perfect as a spiritual leader.”
After managing a long, steadying sip of wine, I asked, “How so?”
“Because it shows such extraordinary ability to look past everyday logic.” He shook his head and laughed. “Conspiracy nuts are the ultimate believers. Think about it, Malcolm. What is faith but the ability to see connections that are not completely there?”
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