A Sorority of Angels

1

'There is no more trusting in women.' Homer

What are you getting me into tonight?

We're going to a gathering of women in the diplomatic world working in responsible positions in consulates and embassies, with spouses or dates or single. Nothing fancy, Laura said. We expect about two-to-three dozen guests and featuring music and food from two host countries.

Sounds good.

Four of us started the idea positive more will join our group. Also, succeeding socials will be fun to sample various international cuisines, and for the women to acquaint and better understand other cultures, and make new friends with common interests and work.

Laura accepted an assignment with the Economic and Social Affairs Section at the United States Mission to the United Nations. Her section spanned a broad spectrum including human rights questions and social and development items: food, population, economic, and environmental issues.

That assignment changed her.

A subtle or fleeting thought never alerted me as I gazed into her gray green eyes that her humanitarian causes and innocent philosophies would terrorize me.

My name is Adam Churchill, a lawyer and Senate Committee legal aide in Washington. Commuting to New York City evolved into a weekend ritual, my need to see Laura, who I love.

I long ago stopped trying to persuade her to abandon trying to save the world and focus on matters within her circle of life...and an immediate matter, marrying me; a subject she deferred.

Nothing wrong with our weekends.

We should be married.

Continue the way we are for a few more months.

Her response never changed, familiar, and expected although I hoped for a change in her position. That's why I raised the subject at every opportunity. I needed to see the sunrise in her eyes all the time.

I should've been persuasive about marriage and moving her out of New York. Instead, I settled for the status quo, difficult to tie down her free spirit, and she did love her career.

I met Laura Johnson at a house social in Washington about a year ago when she worked as an aide to a representative from California. She drew me to her as a magnet. Deeming myself handsome, I attracted her with my dark curly hair, high cheekbones, and dimples when I smiled. I promptly set my sights on maneuvering her to bed (like a stray dog on the prowl). That goal faded to a backburner, temporarily, once she captivated me with her conversation and personality.

Laura possessed a natural quality, down to earth, nothing phony, and instant comfort. I didn't score the first night when I escorted her home - she lived alone. I didn't succeed after the second date or third waiting for her initiative. I wanted to weep from failure - my taking the initiative - fearing I might offend her and lose her friendship. You see, I'm not the bold type. Disappointed, intimacy rated as secondary compared to being with her, but positive our future held that reward.

On our fourth date after entering her apartment, she dimmed a living room lamp and kissed me. I could have sworn I heard distant victory trumpets. In the appropriate words of Disraeli - Everything comes if a man will only wait.

From then on, she and my job dominated my life. When difficult for me to get away, she flew to D. C.

Whatever good in me, she brought out. Whatever love and passion I had, she knew how to surface. My love for her turned obsessive, needing her near, an important part of my lifeline, the vital organ that brought lasting sunshine into my days. I needed to merge with her soul; feelings never experienced before. Time with Laura was God rewarding me for working hard all week.

I would do anything for her.

That created my weakness.

2

Rain stopped before we left and reflecting streets flickered as water fizzled under passing car tires while a clean scent hung in the dampness of settled dust that freshened and mixed well with our senses.

That combination stirred Laura and I to a casual walking pace as we headed for the international social, our arms entwined, walking with caution, and sometimes ballet like to avoid splashing her white slacks. We turned left at First Avenue up the shallow incline to 51st Street then turned left. Laura pointed across the street to an old heavy looking structure, a former elementary school.

That building once served as the International Community Center where wives and children of diplomats gathered and socialized. Many outsiders never realize how strange and lonely it is for these families to come here not knowing anyone, the language, and culture, mainly spouses of junior U.N. diplomats. Wives of ambassadors travel in higher circles, but on occasion, they came here. Loneliness knows no boundaries, and regardless of differences in countries, they had this in common as strangers in a strange land with similar problems. However, a social structure exists in the U.N. It's difficult for some to cope with the problems of housing and schools. The Hospitality Committee for U.N. Delegates helps to make their transition easier. Diplomatic service is less glamorous than perceived. Tonight's party helps to meet and make new contacts.

Arriving at the white brick apartment building on 51st Street between First and Second Avenues, we survived a blue uniformed door attendant's scrutiny. He recognized Laura. The lobby displayed numerous plants and Carrara marble; marble Michelangelo used for his sculptures.

If similar to a Washington party, an international hodge-podge, introduce me by country. Some foreign names are tough to remember. Who is hosting?

Shaba and Alise...Congo and Syria; two other founders.

The social sounds like a great idea.

It's timely.

I'll bet it was your idea.

True.

How come I never met them before?

Nobody sponsored similar parties, meaning aides to ambassadors or U.N. representatives. I promise you an enjoyable evening.

I look forward to meeting them.

They're good friends.

Stainless steel elevator doors opened and we entered. Laura touched the round heat sensitive disc and lit number seven.

Shaba is top aide to Congo's ambassador. She's married. Her husband, a Congolese Army general lives in Congo, in Kinshasa. Last year, renegade forces killed her two children in a raid. Losing her children devastated her and she needed to leave. Her husband arranged the U.N. position through President Busambi. She presents a happy facade that disguises deep anguish for her children, trying to put the tragedy behind her. She plans to visit her country shortly to salvage her marriage.

Why leave her husband?

They weren't compatible. When the children died, nothing remained. She returns to make an effort with him, having to do with tradition and marriage.

A terrific character trait. Maybe it'll work out for her. Losing your children is an unending and painful tragedy. How about Alise?

She's single - lost her parents and two younger sisters in a car accident outside Damascus.

Elevator doors whizzed open. Chatter and Middle Eastern music filtered into the hallway. A multicolored Welcome sign in various languages hung on the last door. Laura pressed the buzzer. The door opened. Room din and Shaba greeted us. In the background, a few curious heads turned towards the door. Shaba's smiling face lit up.

Laura!

They touched cheeks.

Shaba, Adam. Adam, Shaba.

She extended her hand. I accepted.

Good evening, Shaba delighted to meet you.

I heard so much about you that I've known you for years. Come here. She kissed my cheek, stepped back, and looked me over. She wrapped her arm under mine. Laura, get another date. This man is mine.

You can have him. He's a dud.

Shaba, attractive in her short Afro, colorful floor length native dress, and big round gold earrings smiled.

I'll take him anyway. I'm desperate. I have kitchen duty. Hold on to Adam because if you give him up I have first rights.

Shaba winked at me, smiled wider, and vanished.

We greeted all countries, some with escorts: Thailand, Cambodia, Pakistan, India, Chile, Slovenia, Argentina, Ecuador, Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, South Africa, Nigeria, Algeria, and Bulgaria.

Due to the party's purpose, the gathering exempted animosities between countries and among women.

Laura, you have good attendance here. But I notice the absence of Canada, Greece, Russia, China, Germany, England, France, Italy, Australia, and the like.

More would have been crowded for tonight. We will expand later. The U.N. has over one-hundred and ninety members. Our group will increase periodically as socials increase but no more than fifteen women at each social, excluding the original four. We should complete all countries within a year.

Sounds like you plan to build an organization.

You might be right lover.

Where's Syria, Alise?

Laura craned her neck rising on toes.

Not here, may be in the kitchen. Excuse me.

She left. I drifted to the bar bobbing and weaving cautious among guests and ordered a vodka martini with five small olives from a hired bartender dressed in white shirt and black bow tie.

Swirling stucco covered the spacious apartment's high ceilings, decorations representative of Africa and Middle East, furnishings contemporary modern with a generous heaping of metal and glass accessories. A deep red velvet sofa leaped out from a white wall background. On one wall, two spears crossed over a native shield with markings and colorful features. Several guests wore native dress, speech patterns varied, educated and pleasant, a fascinating collage of diverse cultures, and accents.

Laura returned. Tall, I stood as a landmark, easy to find.

Alise left for a few minutes; a problem about her date having second thoughts about coming.

Do you know him?

Never met him. He's the Syrian ambassador, and felt out of place here. Oh, don't say anything, she whispered, but he pays Alise's rent. Speaking on that subject, maybe you should do the same. I'm a poor working girl.

Stop getting stupid ideas.

We'll discuss this subject the next time you get horny.

* * *

(An aside to the story - I included this party to introduce the women whose stories I will highlight. You'll learn all you need to know about them later.)

3

My eyes drifted to a captivating woman of about thirty-seven who appeared unescorted talking to the couple from Thailand. Although names and countries blended into a tossed salad, I remembered her name and country - Pilar deLorenzo, from Argentina.

From her carriage and mannerisms, I knew she came from class. An unmistakable sadness in her dark eyes continued to attract me instead of her poise, smile, or elegant beauty.

How well do you know Argentina? I asked Laura.

I see her often. We're close. She's the fourth founder. The quartet sees each other regularly.

Is she alone tonight? No one accompanied her when you introduced me.

She came alone.

What's her story?

Her husband was killed about a year ago in the economic riots in Buenos Aires. She has three children here in private schools. Her uncle, the president of Argentina, assigned her here when she wanted to leave Argentina for a while. Like Shaba, Pilar needed a change in geography to help her forget.

Looks like she never got over her loss.

She gives that impression; doesn't date at all, still loyal to his memory. She's a former Miss Argentina. Let's go over and talk.

Who's the other couple again? Thailand?

Kim and Tao Soom. Kim is her ambassador's right hand. Tao interns at New York Hospital. Neurology, I believe.

Do they have a tragic background?

No.

That's a relief. I began to believe everybody here had a tragedy.

Not so. I don't have one - only you.

Kim and Tao Soom and Pilar's conversation stopped to greet us when we approached. We conversed for about fifteen minutes; subjects varied, but trivial. I cracked a few witty statements evoking intended laughter. Pilar lowered her facade to laugh although restrained. I was glad to contribute towards eradicating her sadness for a moment. Pilar owned a lovely smile with dimples exposing perfect teeth.

Tao laughed easily and Kim covered her mouth when laughing heartily, a gesture to prevent turning hysterical. Kim was educated, but I sensed a poverty stricken and difficult background. Kim wasn't bred like Pilar. She strived to teach herself, having an air of dignity and pride that evoked a mystical Far Eastern beauty to captivate. It worked on me.

They wanted to know how I earned my living in this great country and I told them. I impressed.

Laura's attention shifted to the front door.

Alise arrived alone.

Come, Adam. I want you to meet Alise.

Alise hung her tan raincoat in the closet then rushed into the kitchen to help Shaba.

As I entered behind Laura, I could hear Shaba mutter, ...and I expected no less.

Someone upset Alise.

When she saw Laura then me, she smiled and perked up.

Alise stood about five-foot-six with long dark hair and dark eyes and exquisite Middle East features. I loved her high cheekbones. Introductions exchanged; delighted to meet me, and friendly, but she ushered us out.

Come on you two, out. Her arms created sweeping motions. Shaba and I share the work detail tonight. We'll join you soon.

Laura turned to me. I'll stay and help. You go ahead, catch up to you in a few.

I joined two groups and chatted.

Laura, Shaba, Alise, and Pilar reviewed and divided their guest list, only women. During the evening, they each managed to talk privately to their assigned countries.

In peripheral vision, I could see Laura trying to convince the woman from South Africa. Alise conversed with Asmir from India. Shaba talked to Jasmine from Algeria, her hands punctuated air. Pilar was leaving a group.

I assumed recruiting others to join their group.

My curiosity elevated after Laura's fourth. I asked about her sidebar talks with those on her list.

We caught up on gossip. Almost done. Why? Did you miss me?

I didn't come here to be alone.

Patience for a few more minutes. Go talk to Pilar and cheer her up. She congratulated me before on how impressive and handsome you are.

You take me for granted when you throw me to Pilar.

She lifted on toes and whispered in my ear, If you don't behave, I'll get a headache later.

Excuse the pun but Laura knew how to hit below the belt.

She left me, party progressed, and the buffet tasted exquisite. When finished gorging, I homed in on Pilar, who no longer needed cheering up. Music, good company, and white wine banished sadness. Her eyes sparkled. After conversation for a short while about her children, we joined Kim and Tao Soom.

Conversations and din increased; guests friendlier with camaraderie's warmth; several men looked tipsy, glassy eyed.

Sounds of an Ude started followed by bongo drums - live entertainment from the Middle East. All gathered in a semicircle around two musicians. The exotic sound stimulated; bodies forced to sway.

Laura returned and joined the semicircle, swaying; crowd and we clapped in rhythm. I spotted Shaba heading for Alise. They left for the bedroom, talking. Alise entered the room. Shaba closed the door and approached the gathering as she clapped and swayed. When the music ended, Shaba hollered cutting applause.

Quiet please! Hold it! Her arms lifted emphasizing silence then imitating the voice and movements of a carnival barker. Ladies and gentlemen. Hear ye! Hear ye! Intermission time. Get a fresh drink or whatever food you can find and come back and sit. Okay? Back in ten minutes. We have a special treat for you. Many dispersed.

Ten minutes later Shaba returned. Are you ready?

Yes! roared the crowd.

All right! Move back. We need room. The man with the Ude waited, ready. Bongo man held a tambourine. Shaba nodded to them and a Middle Eastern rhythm began. Ladies, hold on to your man's eyeballs because right here direct from the Middle East by way of Damascus, the vivacious runaway slave girl from the harem...Alise!

Music started.

From the bedroom drifted the sound of zills, small brass cymbals worn on the exotic dancer's fingers. The door opened and Alise appeared in a belly dance outfit with veils vibrating to the music; dressed in colored veils and embroidered gold coins; whirling and curling around the floor dispensing sultry glances. She wore a jeweled and spangled girdle and an attached blue veil skirt with numerous crystals, hair long and straight. The guests gaped, transfixed, and open mouthed watching a talented performer.

Her arms rippled as a snake, a graceful figure, fluid and sensuous.

She approached me as I sat Indian style on the floor in front, a devilish grin in her eyes. I studied her, awed as her body trembled towards me, artistic. I didn't know where to look first. She smiled at Laura as if asking for permission to harass me then danced before me thrusting hips and shivering her belly as Laura urged her on.

Alise draped her veil over my head and gyrated about an inch or two from my face with cymbals zinging in my ears.

A glassy eyed wise guy yelled out, Close your mouth! and all laughed.

The gallery shouted for me to get up. Amidst shrills and howls Laura encouraged me with nudges.

Alise retreated as zills summoned me. Laura urged me on again. Then Alise started the artistic act of unveiling accentuating basic movements of the dance. She returned to me and flirted again. The last martini must have kicked in because I stood amidst applause and encouragement. I removed my jacket and passed it to Laura.

I tried to quiver and gyrate with Alise, hands overhead, and fingers snapping. We stood toe-to-toe. She picked up speed, muscles moved faster. I gyrated, awkward but good doing my own thing. Alise danced around me, artistic, I, close to burlesque, worse.

Laura nearly doubled over from laughter.

The crowd loved me.

You would have been proud of me.

Alise glided in front of me and her hands slithered around my body and head, her body close, tempting without touching. She stared into my eyes, smiling, teasing. Then she broke away spinning and dancing faster as music tempo increased. She finished with me, discarded.

I sat to applause, a hero.

Alise danced, veils floating, gliding on bare feet a vision of pure grace. When Alise ended the dance, noise qualified Shaba and Alise for eviction.

Laura stayed at my side the remainder of the evening. Nothing diverted her from me. Shaba joined Pilar and Kim. They switched to the balcony although air turned brisk. Alise joined them. Their conversation lasted at least fifteen minutes. Tao waited inside enjoying a martini with me.

I call it a spectacular social. I had to agree Laura and friends came up with an innovative idea based on the international foods and culture theme, a lure to attract more women to their group.

By the way, Laura didn't get a headache.

4

Seven women from the Shaba/Alise international social gathered at six o'clock that next Thursday at Laura's apartment to meet then go out to dinner, a procedure for an ongoing friendship. They agreed to the purpose of their new coalition and would eventually add prospects; several committed to participate, but at another time. Successive meetings for the seven would include continuing discussions and strategies to help towards ending poverty, hunger, and advocating peace.

They all acknowledged reality overwhelmed success - to try to make inroads without timetables, and no evaluations. Effort was expected, but failure anticipated; decent women with honorable motives to initiate from their influential positions, to perform to the best of their ability, within their capability, to utilize persuasive powers, connections, logic, common sense, personal pleas, anything to make a difference no matter how small.

Laura was prepared, loaded with facts.

She presented a synopsis of social and political policies and problems of the countries present.

Towards meeting's end, Laura reached for a red plastic shopping bag.

As in most organizations with goals, it's important to have a unity symbol, a symbol to remind us of our commitment to humanity and to each other, to help give us strength and a reaffirmation when doubt lingers - a camaraderie symbol as a sorority pin. She removed seven blue velvet jewelry cases from the bag and passed them out. Don't open them yet. Finished distributing, she opened hers.

Inside displayed a necklace: a gold chain holding a gold heart about an inch in size, on the heart a raised outline of angel wings. On the left side, a heel with an arrow in it, a beautiful piece of jewelry. As Laura walked among them, their expressions indicated approval.

This is the Achilles Heart symbol of our newborn international sorority. The heart and angel wings represent love, caring, and strength. The heel and arrow symbolize weakness, a man's weakness. Why a man? Because, unfortunately, they still run the world. If unfamiliar with the ten-year Trojan War and Homer's Iliad, Achilles was a mighty Greek warrior defeated only through his heel, his weakness. When you open, put on the Achilles Heart. I ask that you stand one by one and repeat this vow - This is the symbol of my commitment within my capabilities for humanity. Shaba, let's start with you.

Shaba stood first. Then Pilar, Alise, Jasmine, Asmir, and Kim followed then Laura.

That is how this sorority, these seven angels of hunger and poverty began with commendable missions and sincere and honorable intentions.

What they encountered, what happened to each is almost unbelievable.

This story can unfold in various ways.

I could continue with what happened when Laura came to Washington to involve me, or begin with one of the others.

Let's save me for later and continue with Pilar.

BOOK OF PILAR

If all men were just, there would be no need of valor.

Agesilaus [444 - 400 BC]

5

Two weeks after the initial meeting -

The year in New York had been lonely for Pilar deLorenzo. With newfound friends, the past few weeks filled with interest and stimulation, a member of a sorority, a chance for companionship and conversation with women of common interest and work - more important, six new friends.

For Pilar, the past month settled mire and pall of tragedy, beginning to feel initial stages of independence.

Pilar married Carlos when attending Buenos Aires University and two years after her Miss Argentina title. A strong, dominant, wealthy but gentle father protected her and catered to every whim. Her mother died of leukemia when Pilar was six, an only child and pride and joy in her father's life. Pilar regretted he died the year before she won the Miss Argentina title. Then, also, tragedy of losing a vital person in her life affected her. Then the title came, and diversion.

Then she met Carlos, to give her life. She devoted to Carlos, five years older, finding in him many characteristics lost with her father's passing.

With strong male authority, Pilar never had a need except for the period between her father and Carlos to think independently. Her college education programmed her future for the next three years. Her title's schedule forced her to leave school for a year. The decision to marry Carlos was her first major independent decision.

She loved Carlos.

He fulfilled every need and desire.

His loss left a void she felt incapable of bridging, wouldn't allow herself to cross the bridge.

Associating with Laura and the others meant a leap forward towards closing the gap, and a foothold on independent action. The Achilles Heart necklace turned into an important accessory, a crutch. When her thinking drifted negative, she found comfort by holding and rubbing the heart and raised heel.

Pilar almost emerged from grief. On the horizon waited the new Pilar deLorenzo, but a distance to travel to get there.

Children tempered her loneliness, devoted to them keeping busy and diverted with their constant needs and demands. She lived absent of friends, a date, and a lover. She suppressed any need to love a man again. People at work assumed her a cold person, snobbish.

She wore her grief and attitude with every change of clothing.

Ambassador Estaban acted fatherly. The President entrusted her in his care. Estaban extended many invitations to attend United Nations functions with him and his wife; invitations for dinner at his home and to other socials. Pilar refused them all using her children as excuse.

Her housekeeper, Esmeralda, proved invaluable. She hastened the children - Andres, Sorel, and Roberto - to school in the morning and cared for them after school, all homework completed before Pilar arrived home.

Esmeralda, a long-time member of Pilar's family, joined Pilar and Carlos after their first child, Andres, was born. She raised Pilar and raises her children. Their relationship exceeded employer/employee. Esmeralda was family. In her sixties, short, and slightly plump, she expanded a lifetime with Pilar's family. Pilar benefited from Esmeralda's energies treating Pilar as a daughter.

Pilar's children referred to her as Aunt Esmeralda, a strict disciplinarian endowed with softness and love for them. Esmeralda lacked formal education but wise and understanding that Pilar was their mother. She never allowed the children to forget that and careful never to overrule Pilar in a disciplinary action. Esmeralda and Pilar shared mutual respect.

Esmeralda understood Pilar's grief. She grieved with her at first, as a mother then never lingered on the past's tragedies. Think of the good times served as her motto. She viewed Pilar like a sentry as she watched her deteriorate socially, trying often in vain to offer motherly advice because in her heart Pilar remained the child she raised.

As the jet headed for (Ezeiza) Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires, Pilar grew impatient to get there, to put the long trip behind.

Buenos Aires was home.

Argentina was home.

Pilar escaped tragedy; ran to minimize the aftermath; wrestled to accept the price she paid for Argentina's struggle to change to a new democracy that made her a widow; feeling she made the ultimate sacrifice; deprived of the man she loved, and her children deprived of their father. Her agony cemented permanently in that democratic cornerstone.

Pilar refused to accept her fate of