The Second Hill

Table of Contents

1

CHILLING DISBELIEF

2

THE EVILDOERS AND THE DESK

3

THE NIGHTINGALE

4

LITTLE MISS

5

THE TAO

6

THE NEW LEFT

7

CHRISTA

8

THE MAN IN THE MASK AND ICHABOD

9

THE BEGGARS AND THE SURREALIST

10

THE MALTESE FALCON

11

THE GRAPES OF WRATH

12

WEAVING SPIDERS, COME NOT HERE

13

HATRED

14

DÉJÀ VU

15

AMEN CORNER

16

MIRACLES

17

E = MC2

18

THE GRAPES OF RECTITUDE

19

ATLAS SHRUGGED206

20

IMAGINE

21

THE GOD OF THE FOUNDERS

22

DUTCH

23

PARADOX

24

A JEWELER’S EYE

25

M = E/C2

NOTES

1

CHILLING DISBELIEF

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period …

Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities

1859

I

It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Jack Joyner awoke to his 4:00 a.m. alarm. His workday would begin in five hours.

Jack never rushed himself. His early morning jog through the dark streets of Georgetown invariably took an hour. The second hour or so allowed a leisurely shower, a careful shave, and the requisite attention to the remaining aspects of routine grooming and hygiene. By 6:30, Jack was freshened, dressed, and ready for his usual breakfast of perfectly ripe, low-glycemic-index fruit, various vitamin/mineral supplements, eight ounces of soy milk, and a pot of unsweetened green tea—arranged on the table alongside the Washington Times, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal by Maggie, his wife of almost seven years. Breakfast and the newspapers, particularly their op-ed sections, consumed about ninety minutes, quality time for Jack and Maggie, who enjoyed discussing the news of the day as they savored the morning repast.

At 8:15 on that pleasant, clear morning, Jack was ready for his unhurried five-block walk to Georgetown University. He kissed Maggie and told her that he would see her for lunch. While strolling down the shaded streets toward the Healy Gates, Jack thought about his first lecture of the new semester.

After collecting and reviewing his on-campus mail, he reached Room 106 in Healy Hall at 9:00. As he entered, his twelve freshmen students were seated around a rotund conference table. He sat down at the table and prepared to address the class. Before introducing himself, he recited a short but profound appeal: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit … Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us, for we are sinners … In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit … Amen.

"In 1982, not long ago at all, I was a neophyte collegian just like each of you. As I entered the room this morning, I looked at your young faces, and I saw myself in each one of them. Nineteen years ago at Georgetown, I anxiously awaited the arrival of my first professor. The class was a philosophy proseminar like this one. I hope that you enjoy this class as much as I enjoyed mine.

"We embark today on a fascinating trek through the annals of Western philosophy. There are engaging stops along the way to the ultimate inquiry at journey’s end: who are right—the moral absolutists or the moral relativists?

I’m Jack Joyner, and I’m here to guide you toward the resolution of that critical, mystifying question. How the world answers it, I believe, will shape the twenty-first century.

Suddenly, Jack’s attention was diverted. His cell phone, always holstered on his left hip, was vibrating. He focused on its screen. Maggie was calling.

Please excuse me, he politely said to the attentive group. I need to answer this call.

As he got up to step into the hallway to speak to his wife, Jack hoped that the young scholars were eager to hear what he would say next about their upcoming adventure.

Hi, Maggie. What’s up?

Jack, there is breaking news. About fifteen minutes ago, a plane hit the north tower of the World Trade Center. I’ll call you back when I have more information.

"Good Lord! I’ll let my class know! Maggie, they remind me so much of me at seventeen or eighteen. Anyway, please call me when you learn more about the crash. Unbelievable! Bye for now. I love you."

Jack reentered the classroom.

"That was my wife, Maggie. She’s a professor here. She teaches Chinese, Russian, Arabic, and French. I hope that each of you studies a language under her.

Maggie called to tell me that a plane just hit the north tower of the World Trade Center. Before we concentrate on philosophy, let’s pause and say a silent prayer for those aboard the plane and in the Trade Center.

Surely, thought Jack, there is carnage in lower Manhattan. God, have mercy on the souls of those who have perished.

The cell phone vibrated again. Without a word to his students, Jack returned to the hallway to answer Maggie’s call.

Jack, something sinister is going on. A plane just struck the south tower. There is chaos in Manhattan. We’re apparently under attack, but nobody knows by whom.

Maggie, let me go back in and tell them about this. Stay in touch.

Jack’s ruddy complexion turned ashen as he faced the innocent youngsters. The prospect of carnage again entered his mind.

I have horrific news. Maggie just told me that a moment ago another plane struck the south tower of the Trade Center.

Jack saw perturbation among his apprentices and tried to calm their troubled minds.

Well, let’s sit tight until we hear something further.

After a brief pause, he posed the provocative question, Does anyone know what the term ‘postmodernism’ means?

Without delay, a confident young man raised his hand.

Yes, sir, he answered firmly.

What’s your name, young man?

Alan, Alan John, sir.

Thank you, Alan. Oh, I forgot to ask each of you for a brief bio. Before we proceed with the introductions, though, I want Alan to tell us what he knows about postmodernism.

Alan was calm and self-assured.

The postmodernist denies that there are absolute truths, like the Ten Commandments. He submits that one can neither judge the rightness nor the wrongness of anything. Consider genocide. A postmodernist like Derrida maintains that there is no basic feature that makes genocide intrinsically wrong. The ‘rightness’ and the ‘wrongness’ of genocide are equally tenable. There is no objective truth.

Jack was pleasantly startled by young Alan’s arresting maturity.

At this early juncture, that’s a really well stated formulation, Alan. You’ve adeptly cleared the path leading to the ultimate question’s answer … Well, let’s introduce ourselves. Alan, we’ll start with you and progress from your left.

I’m Alan John from New Orleans. I graduated from Jesuit High School there. I was on the debate team, which won numerous top awards at places like Stanford, Berkeley, Emory, and the University of Chicago from 1997 to and including this year. I’m enrolled in the School of Foreign Service,¹ where I intend to focus on economics, philosophy, and political science.

Again, Alan had surprised Jack—this time, extremely so. He could hardly wait to talk privately to the worldly youngster about their amazingly similar backgrounds. He paused for a few seconds, and after a hint of a smile aimed at Alan, he nodded to the eager young lady to Alan’s left.

But before she could begin her bio, a thunderous explosion erupted. It seemed to have been a couple of miles away. Jack exclaimed, What the hell was that? Palpable fear gripped teacher and students.

Jack called Maggie. Maggie, are you all right?

Maggie’s voice cracked with emotion. I’m fine. I heard the explosion. I was calling you just as you reached me. Is everything okay at school?

As far as I can tell, everything’s normal. Wait, I do see activity across Healy Lawn, near the security building.

Hold on, Jack. There’s another bulletin on Fox … Good Lord, have mercy! Jack, the explosion was at the Pentagon! A plane just crashed into the Pentagon!

That’s it. I’m calling Bob, and I’m coming home. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay put.

Jack reached the dean. Bob, have you heard the horrendous news about the Twin Towers? The Pentagon was just attacked. What the hell is going on?

Jack, dismiss your class, and instruct your students to get back to their dorms and watch the television news. They might want to call home to assure their families that they’re okay. An announcement is forthcoming.

Just before the announcement suspending classes and ordering students and faculty to stay within the Georgetown environs, Jack told the puzzled, fearful youngsters that the explosion had happened at the Pentagon.

An airplane just dove into the Pentagon. Stay on or near campus. The streets and the Metro are probably closed. Get to TV sets as soon as you can. Call home, and tell your parents that you are unharmed. I have your campus phone numbers. I’ll call each of you concerning the next class and the assignment. Stay alert, be safe, and please pray.

Jack hurried out of Healy Hall, through the Healy Gates, and toward home. He arrived posthaste at 3301 N Street and ran to the den, where he saw Maggie staring at the television in chilling disbelief. Saying nothing, he sat next to his wife and hugged her. They saw people, defenestrated by terror, free-falling from the trembling infernos that had been the majestic Twin Towers. Without warning, the south tower collapsed into a wretched ash heap.

About twenty minutes later, another shocking story broke: United Airlines Flight 93 had crashed in Somerset County, near Pittsburgh.

My God, Maggie, what’s happening to our country?

Jack, I don’t know what to think or say. Let’s pray for the victims. God knows how many there are.

The dumbfounded couple joined hands to pray. But even prayer fell victim to the hellish day. Before Jack and Maggie could summon God, they were shocked yet again. The north tower joined its neighbor on the ground, a place that forever would be called Ground Zero. Maggie ran to the phone to call Jack’s family in New Orleans and hers in San Francisco. After assuring the Joyners and the Burkes that 3301 N Street was safe, Maggie joined Jack back on the sofa to await news that hopefully would explain the inexplicable bloodshed that, in the short space of two hours, had startled the world.

At 11:30, Jack suggested they walk to the student center, where they lunched almost every Tuesday with Miriam Kirke and Paul Wolfe, their friends who served on the faculty of the School of Foreign Service. When they arrived at the Faculty Club in the Leavey Center, Professors Kirke and Wolfe were glued to Fox News and sipping red wine. The Joyners sat down and helped themselves to the claret, an inviting bottle of Dourthe Numerol.

Professor Kirke, an imposing, stern woman in her early fifties, was an international affairs expert, who had served on the cabinets of two presidents. Professor Wolfe was a career diplomat before he joined the Georgetown faculty. He was fiftyish, jovial, and almost portly—a much less serious-looking character than his colleague.

The anxious foursome sat mute, their attention riveted to the television. The news reports continued. Incrementally, the mystery unraveled. The four crashes were ostensibly related, seemingly parts of a sinister scheme by Muslim fanatics to terrorize America—indeed, the Western world—by striking at freedom’s vital organs: America’s capitalist spirit, symbolized by the Manhattan Twin Towers, and its military-industrial complex, centered at the Pentagon. But what about the Pennsylvania crash? Apparently, that hijacked airliner had been aimed at either the White House or the Capitol, emanations of the federalist ideals advanced by Hamilton, Madison, and Jay.

Professor Wolfe broke the silence. What we are seeing, my friends, is further evidence of a new Crusade, a counter-Crusade by radical Islam against Judeo-Christianity—really, a frontal assault against Western civilization. Think back to the first Christian strikes against the Middle East nine centuries ago. Remember as well the subsequent Crusades. For so long, Christians waged war in Christ’s name against the Muslim world, which never has forgiven the West for what Islam saw and continues to see as unprovoked belligerence.² Well, it’s payback time. Brace yourselves. We’re in for a long, terrifying ride. Life as we have come to know it is over. Unspeakable evil has descended upon us.

Professor Kirke offered her observations. "Paul, I know what you mean by ‘further evidence.’ You and I have said for some time that the United States and the rest of the free world have not connected the dots on terrorist attacks. Today confirms that modern radical Islam has declared war on everything occidental. Let’s connect the dots: the murderous assault on the Marine barracks in Lebanon in 1983, the hijacking of the Achille Lauro in 1985, the destruction of Pan Am 103 in 1988, the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993, the strikes against American military headquarters in Saudi Arabia in 1995 and 1996, the 1998 US embassy bombings in Africa, the smashing of the U.S.S. Cole in 2000, and the savage killing that we saw today. The counter-Crusade is clearly upon us.

All of this begets the question: will there be, on the part of the West, an enduring, methodical response to systematic terrorism?

After a minute of reticence, Jack suggested they have lunch. They made their way to the Faculty Club buffet, an eclectic arrangement of wholesome victuals as pleasing to the palate as to the eye. Back at their table, the incredulous academicians again focused on the news. The president, who had been in Sarasota, Florida, during the attacks, was sequestered aboard Air Force One somewhere in the blue yonder. But Jack knew that the world would hear from him soon enough.

After lunch, Jack and Maggie left for home while Professors Kirke and Wolfe remained to decipher further the calamity that America and the rest of the world eternally would call 9/11. Holding hands, the Joyners strolled through the campus toward their grand house.

When we get home, Maggie, I’m going to my study to ponder what happened. Ideas are racing through my mind, and I need to sort through them.

Maggie responded, Of course. I’ve got some thoughts to mull over as well.

II

Jack retired to his study, a bright, sprawling room surrounded by bookshelves crammed with the works of philosophers, historians, political theorists, economists, and scientists. There was fiction as well. Jack was a Dickens aficionado; he had accumulated all of the venerable novelist’s works.

Jack was fond of Duoro Valley Port, which he had discovered as a graduate student at the London School of Economics. He treated himself to a two-ounce pour and sat down at his massive Victorian desk, a serendipitous find at an old shop in London’s Bloomsbury section. He gazed across the street at the Georgian mansion occupied by the Taylor Institute, a conservative think tank with which he was affiliated. Suddenly, and for no discernible reason, he focused on his Dickens collection. Instinctively, he pulled A Tale of Two Cities. His sixth sense directed him to the novel’s renowned opening:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period …

Dickens was describing the period of the French Revolution (circa 1789–1799), an arrantly misguided quest for political and economic freedom.³ He feared the political and social zealotry that had seized France near the close of the eighteenth century would recur in mid-nineteenth-century England.

Jack saw a striking parallel between Dickens’s anxiety and his own fears about the already paradoxical twenty-first century, an enormously optimistic time abruptly battered by inconceivable depravity. He reflected on recent history and realized that what Dickens said a century and a half ago could be said on September 11 in the year 2001, annus horribilis. Dickens had dreaded the prospect of a French Revolution in Victorian England. Jack, in Burkian/Dickensian fashion, feared the possibility of a twenty-first-century world dominated by moral relativism. Indeed, thought Jack, it is the best and worst of times. The cold war is over, and freedom is on the march around the world. Yet, freedom just has been assailed in its crucible, not by a malevolent army, but by stateless, delusional extremists whose sole motivation is the evisceration of Western civilization.

He sipped his port and continued his cogitation. It is the age of wisdom and the age of foolishness. How true. It is the age of John Paul II, of Reagan, and of Thatcher. Yet, it is a time of shameless demagoguery. Stubborn communists, fascists, and socialists incessantly slander, to the immense satisfaction of the gullible masses, the architects of freedom.⁴

Jack continued to recall Dickens, while further formulating his impression of modernity. It is the epoch of belief and, at the same time, of incredulity. Yes, Mr. Dickens. That curious state of affairs dominated the French Revolution and haunts us today. The venerated texts⁵ advancing the basic tenets of fundamental decency and morality still hold sway against moral relativism. But, unbelievably, a coterie of thuggish murderers a few hours ago trampled upon the Natural Law. And they justify evil by adopting a false morality—a morality that is felt, not judged.

Jack savored another sip of port and, with Dickens at his side, resumed his philosophical journey. It is the season of Light but, as well, the season of Darkness. That observation, my dear Dickens, is one for all ages. In this world, there always will be good; and, at the same time, there will be evil. Such is the condition of human affairs; such is the essence of human nature.

Jack finished his port. While pouring a little more, he remembered the words of Ayn Rand⁶:

One must never fail to pronounce moral judgment. Nothing can corrupt and disintegrate a culture or a man’s character as thoroughly as does … the idea that one must never pass moral judgment on others, that one must be morally tolerant of anything, that the good consists of never distinguishing good from evil.

Although Jack rejected Rand’s secularism, he generally embraced her perspective on the essence of morality. Yes, Miss Rand, he thought, forever in this world, there will be evil athwart good. But one must never hesitate to judge and condemn evil as the ultimate violation of the objective, unassailable moral order. The terrorist acts that today destroyed innocent people solely to humiliate a civilization were evil, period. It is irrational to argue otherwise.

Jack returned to Dickens. It is the spring of hope and the winter of despair. We have everything, and yet, we have nothing before us. We are all going direct to Heaven, we are all going direct the other way. He remembered the day’s beginning. As I was jogging this morning, my mind was at peace. The world seemed to be on the right track. But somehow, it has taken a wrong turn down a rock-strewn path toward hopelessness. As I sit here among my books in this special room that I have enjoyed so much over the years, I am despondent. The winter of despair is here. We have nothing before us except uncertainty and fear. Bewilderment and contradiction have seized the new century, just as they had arrested eighteenth-century France, where Enlightenment ideals eventually surrendered to raw emotion and vengeful action. But will today’s world witness the triumph of evil itself? Will we all go direct the other way?

Jack believed the philosopher must respond to moral crises by creating logical frameworks that can identify the etiology of villainy. He had thought for years about genocide, particularly the Holocaust; and he theorized that demonic episodes, like the horror launched by Hitler, are tragedies born of postmodernism, the concept that Alan talked about earlier in the day. Before leaving his study, in a sudden whisper to himself, Jack proclaimed, Postmodernism generated the butchery that the world witnessed today. He fully realized that eventually he would have to assign cogent reasons to his conclusion. But, he was wholly confident that he could establish logically the linkage between postmodernism and 9/11. After all, Jack was a consummate philosopher.

2

THE EVILDOERS AND THE DESK

[The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe] neither was about World War II, nor was it an allegory for it, and yet it was informed by the moral absolutes and challenges of the wartime period: There’s the presence of darkest evil, which can’t be avoided but must be faced head-on. There’s the grim understanding that sacrifice is necessary, that whole worlds are riding on the actions of a handful of individuals. And, in the presence of wickedness so complete as to be supernatural, there’s faith in absolute goodness.

Mick LaSalle

Movie Critic

San Francisco Chronicle ⁷

I

It was Saturday evening, October 6, twenty-six days since 9/11. After 5:30 vigil mass at Holy Trinity Catholic Church, Jack and Maggie crossed 36th Street and walked a couple of blocks to the Tombs, their usual spot for a light Saturday dinner. They always spent a few hours at the popular Georgetown eatery, where faculty and students, freed from the tug of academia, talked about nothing in particular and enjoyed simple camaraderie.

Shortly after Maggie and he were seated, Jack spotted Alan, his promising proseminar student, two tables away and alone. Alan, sipping a soft drink, was reading the Washington Times, Jack’s preferred D.C. newspaper.

Maggie, look at the young man at the corner table reading the newspaper. His name is Alan. He’s in my proseminar. There’s something about him that I can’t quite put my finger on, but I really believe that he has potential. Do you mind my inviting him to join us?

Not at all … Wait a minute. Jack, he just enrolled in my Arabic class. He’s certainly an attractive, clean-cut kid. And highly intelligent. His language skills are unusually keen. I can see his remarkable potential, even though I’ve had only four hours with him. Notice how absorbed he is. I wonder what he’s reading.

Jack approached Alan’s table as Maggie looked on eagerly.

Hi, Alan. How are you?

Alan looked up from his newspaper and, with a warm smile, greeted his teacher. Hello, Professor Joyner. I’m well. I saw you and Mrs. Joyner in church this evening. Remember, you told us at the first class that she teaches Chinese, Russian, Arabic, and French. After what had happened, I decided to add her Arabic class to my schedule. I can handle twenty-one hours easily, and Arabic, as you know, is especially relevant after 9/11.

"What are you reading in the Times?"

An article by George Will, one of my favorite writers. It’s about a baseball game. Mr. Will loves baseball. He’s relating a magnificent pitchers’ duel. The game is scoreless in the twelfth inning, and the starters are still on the mound. The pitchers and their teams are nameless. I believe that Mr. Will is writing about the perpetual contest between good and evil. We’ll see. I can’t wait to read his columns about terrorism in the coming weeks.

Alan, I know Mr. Will. He’s one of my favorite writers, as well. I often talk to him about politics and philosophy. He hires Georgetown students as research assistants. His office is a few blocks from here, just off M Street.

Really? Hopefully, I’ll get to meet him.

Alan, I somehow know that you someday will meet Mr. Will. Why don’t you join Mrs. Joyner and me? We really would enjoy your company.

Alan was somewhat surprised, and he felt privileged by the invitation.

Yes, indeed! That would be great! It’s so nice of you to ask.

Smiling, they walked over toward Maggie.

Maggie, you know Alan. He said that he’s happy to join us.

Hello, Alan. Are you enjoying Arabic?

Hello, Professor Joyner. Yes, I’m really into Arabic, and I promise that, by graduation time, I’ll be good enough at it to discuss foreign policy with Middle Eastern diplomats sans interpreter.

Maggie did not doubt for a moment that Alan would master Arabic in four short years. With a hint of reverence, she smiled at the engaging and exceptional lad.

After they ordered, Jack surprised Maggie and Alan. Alan, recall the first day of class, on September 11. You said that you’re from New Orleans and that you went to Jesuit High School, where you excelled at debate and won tournaments at Stanford, Berkeley, Emory, and U Chicago. Then, on to Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service to study economics, philosophy, and political science.

Maggie was astonished. Jack continued. Guess what, Alan. I’m from New Orleans. I was born and reared there. I was on the Jesuit High School debate team, which won tournaments at the same places you mentioned. I graduated from the SFS at Georgetown and studied economics and political science before gravitating to philosophy.

Maggie finally voiced disbelief. I can’t imagine this. What amazing coincidence. How can it be?

I don’t know, but it is, said Jack, chuckling.

When did you go to Jesuit? Alan asked.

I began in the eighth grade in 1977 and graduated in 1982, nineteen years before you, Alan. You said that your debate career started in 1997. Did you begin Jesuit in the eighth grade?

I surely did—in 1996.

Maggie chimed in. This is too coincidental to be fortuitous. Could all of this have been planned?

Maggie answered herself. No, of course not.

A thought occurred to her. Alan, what’s your birthday?

November 16.

Maggie stared, openmouthed, at Alan and a flabbergasted Jack. Alan, quite entertained, looked on. Maggie continued. Alan, guess what Jack’s birthday is.

Instantly, Alan replied, After all that has been revealed, it must be November 16.

Of course, you’re right, said Maggie, who by this time had conquered incredulity.

Mrs. Joyner, when’s your birthday?

Sorry, Alan. It’s September 26. But Jack and I were born in the same year, 1964.

As the threesome tried to digest the almost inconceivable Jack/Alan parallel, the conversation switched to 9/11. Alan noted that the cumulative death toll in Manhattan, Arlington, and Somerset County, Pennsylvania was 3,016.

He asked his professors, How will we respond to 9/11? Jack remembered that Professor Kirke had propounded the same question at the Faculty Club. Before either Jack or Maggie could answer, Alan opined, I believe that we will react swiftly and resolutely against bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and the Taliban. They are the culprits, and we must go after them … soon, in Afghanistan. That’s where the Taliban are hiding bin Laden and al-Qaeda.

The attacks happened almost a month ago, said Jack. When do you think we’ll respond?

We could attack them at any moment, Alan replied. A Sunday response would be appropriate. Sunday brings to mind the Resurrection, and it is the day for our nation to rise from the rubble and defy those who would bury us.

Jack asked, Alan, what do you think caused 9/11?

Alan responded without hesitation. Evil caused 9/11. Unmitigated evil performed by misguided, deranged people brought the misery and destruction that we witnessed on that dreadful day.

Alan, I’m rather intrigued by what you just said. Let me read some statements by the president in his recent speeches. Jack then read some of President Bush’s post-9/11 comments that he had pulled from his jacket pocket:

Civilized people around the world denounce the evildoers who devised and executed these terrible attacks. Justice demands that those who helped or harbored the terrorists be punished—and punished severely. The enormity of their evil demands it. We will use all the resources of the United States and our cooperating friends and allies to pursue those responsible for this evil, until justice is done …

We will persevere through this national tragedy and personal loss. In time, we will find healing and recovery; and, in the face of all this evil, we remain strong and united, one Nation under God …

We’re going to find those … evildoers, those barbaric people who attacked our country, and we’re going to hold the people who house them accountable …

There are many Americans on bended knee from all different religions, praying to an almighty God. We’re a nation united in our conviction that we must find those evildoers and bring them to justice. We seek not revenge in America; we seek justice …

Make no mistake about it. This is good versus evil. These are evildoers. They have no justification for their actions. There’s no religious justification; there’s no political justification. The only motivation is evil.⁸

"Notice the recurring reference to evil and evildoers, Alan. The president and you are on the same page.

After I dismissed that first proseminar session, Maggie and I had lunch with Professors Kirke and Wolfe from SFS, and they tried to explain what had happened. They attribute the attacks mainly to Islamic fanaticism. Like the president, you fault evil itself, perpetrated by depraved people. That diagnosis, I believe, is closer to the point. Radical Islam does not hold the monopoly on evil. But I think that 9/11 transcends both explanations, which provide merely two pieces to a three-piece puzzle. And I surmise, Alan, that you, as well as I, know what the last piece is. Don’t tell me now what you’re thinking. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for your opinion.

Alan nodded, smiled at his professors, and replied, Fair enough. He was substantially certain about when Jack would solicit his definitive analysis of the 9/11 conundrum.

Maggie, who had been silent as she listened attentively to Jack and Alan, interrupted. Alan, would you like to join us for a glass of port at our house? We live just a few blocks away, on N Street. Why don’t you walk over with us?

Thank you very much. I would love to come. I’m living at Copley and don’t have to be back there until ten.

Jack was pleased that Alan would join them at home.

Great, Alan! I’ll walk back to Copley with you at about 9:30. By the way, how did you get to stay at Copley? Isn’t that dorm available only to juniors and seniors?

Alan unapologetically explained, You’re right. When I visited last year, I fell in love with Copley. It blends perfectly with Healy. I really like the greystone facades and the Flemish Romanesque style of both buildings. So, I pulled some strings and secured a dorm-monitor position at Copley. The monitors are meeting tonight. That’s why I have to be back for ten.

Maggie chortled, You’re some operator, Alan.

Over Alan’s objection, Jack paid the bill, and professors and student made the brief walk to the Joyner residence.

II

They reached the stately structure at the corner of N and 33rd Streets in about ten minutes. The house was of red brick, a most impressive three-story construction of fifteen thousand square feet. Its modest but dignified front portico was supported by two understated fluted Corinthian columns. Two noble lion statuettes guarded the doorway. The house’s design conceded to the Adamsesque Federal style, a more-than-subtle shift from the pure Georgian scheme so popular by the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

Jack opened the wide front door—painted white and smoothly finished. They entered the foyer, and Alan immediately noticed to his left, through tall, open, beveled-glass pocket doors, Jack’s study, which was much more than a room equipped for reading and writing. It was unmistakably a library, an exceptional collection of tomes that spanned three and a half millennia. Somewhat startled, Alan stared at the imposing room, whose fourteen-foot-high walls, except for an area dedicated to a lonely fireplace under a portrait of Ronald Reagan, were concealed by bookshelves stacked from floor to ceiling. The floor, constructed of quarter-sawn, antique oak, was enhanced by a semi-dark stain and protected by a satin-smooth varnish. Two windows at the house’s left front, from which the room extended perhaps sixty feet toward the back, afforded considerable light; but the evening hours called for illumination by an exquisite crystal chandelier and by something else unusual.

Alan, I see that you are quite interested in the study. Go ahead and look around while Maggie and I fetch some port and cheese. We’ll be a few minutes. Feel free to explore.

Alan was awestruck by the array of books surrounding him, a collection redolent of the rich Jefferson exhibition⁹ that he had seen at the Library of Congress a year earlier. He felt Jefferson’s presence as he scanned the shelves, where the beautifully bound volumes seemed to be in motion. All of the great works were there, begging to be held and perused: the immortal works of Homer, Sappho, Plato, Sophocles, Aristotle, Cicero, Aeschylus, Thucydides, Euripides, Virgil, the inspired authors of the Old and New Testaments, Augustine, Aquinas, Pizan, Machiavelli, Milton, Cervantes, Descartes, Galileo, Calvin, Hobbes, Locke, Dante, Boccaccio, Hume, Kant, Montaigne, Rousseau, Shakespeare, Hegel, Engels, Marx, Darwin, Mill, Nietzsche, Beauvoir, Sartre, Conrad, Austen, Woolf, Voltaire, Paine, Freud, Einstein, Churchill, Buckley, and on, and on—hundreds upon hundreds of books and sets of books containing the history of thought from antiquity to modernity. It occurred to Alan that Jack, like Mr. Jefferson, was unequivocally an Enlightenment man.

Alan’s focus finally shifted to the Victorian desk, a magnificent piece of light-stained, beautifully finished furniture made of solid, white oak. Red oak veneer lined the perimeter of its massive writing surface. The unique front was framed by a mantelpiece with two smooth, stalwart columns. The back of the desk had eight drawers, four on each side. There was an especially wide and deep pencil drawer at the center back. The hardware consisted of ornate Victorian brass bin pulls. Behind the desk was a large antique spindle-back chair with an inviting brown leather seat and a swivel base on four wheels. Alan sat in the spindle-back and further examined the splendid appurtenance in front of him. The desk was situated directly under the chandelier and in the center of the library, which must have measured upward of twenty-five hundred square feet. There was something remarkable, indeed mystical, about the desk. Light seemed to emanate more from it than from the glistening chandelier. Alan felt serene as he sat there, looking at the desk’s uncluttered top, encumbered only by a brown leather mat and a Waterford crystal paperweight in the configuration of the American flag.

Jack and Maggie entered, each carrying a loaded silver tray. Jack’s tray contained three Spiegelau Connoisseur wineglasses and a Spiegelau decanter of his favorite vintage port, the same 2000 vintage that he had enjoyed on that fateful Tuesday afternoon when, in the company of Dickens, he struggled to determine why 9/11 had happened. Maggie presented a tray of farmhouse and artisanal cheeses recently purchased from Dean & DeLuca on M Street, where Jack usually got his port. They sat the trays on a rather large antebellum Virginia coffee table. Around the table were four smaller-than-usual, reconditioned Chippendale mahogany dining chairs, their backs and seats padded with attractive maroon Colonial Williamsburg fabric, stuffed and sewn to afford maximal comfort.

Jack asked, What do you think of the room, Alan?

I think this room is magical. You must enjoy working here immensely. I wonder why I feel so tranquil behind this desk.

Maggie suggested that they sit down at the coffee table, arranged about fifteen feet from the desk and near the study windows. In a motherly manner, she gently touched her young guest’s hand. Alan, you’re not yet of drinking age. Would you prefer hot tea with your cheese? I have a pot of excellent English breakfast blend steeping in the kitchen.

I don’t mind the port at all, Mrs. Joyner. Really, I would prefer it to tea with that tempting cheese assortment. Anyway, we’re walking carefully and leisurely, I’m sure, to Copley, and Professor Joyner will see that I get there safe and sound. Won’t you, Professor Joyner?

Jack winked and nodded. Maggie, amused by Alan’s good-humored, tongue-in-cheek demeanor, poured three glasses of Duoro Valley Port. As the Joyners and their newfound friend sipped their wine and sampled the mix of cheeses, they talked about New Orleans—Jesuit High School, Jackson Square, the French Quarter, and the famous Crescent City restaurants: Galatoire’s, Emeril’s, Commander’s Palace, K-Paul’s, Brigtsen’s, and quite a few others. Jack, Maggie, and Alan were obviously epicures.

The reminiscence about home reminded Alan that he would soon be returning for a visit.

It’s over a month away, but I can’t wait for the Thanksgiving holidays. I’m going home on November 20. I leave from Reagan Airport at six that evening. Some high school friends and I have reservations at Emeril’s on Wednesday and at Commander’s on Friday. My parents and I will have Thanksgiving dinner at the Fairmont. We like the huge spread there.

Jack couldn’t resist an offer to Alan. We’re also going to New Orleans for Thanksgiving. Our anniversary is November 23. We’ll celebrate our anniversary, and on Sunday, we’re going to 11:00 mass at St. Louis Cathedral. Would you like to come with us?

Thanks a lot, Professor, but my parents and I already have planned to go to mass at St. Patrick’s. He countered with his own proposal. "Afterward, though, my parents are going to the Rib Room for brunch, and I decided to skip that to visit the Rodrigue Gallery and look at some Blue Dog¹⁰ prints.

"I’m a dedicated Blue Dog collector. Rodrigue is on Royal Street, just around the corner from the cathedral. Can we meet at Faulkner House Books¹¹ in Pirate’s Alley at 12:30? I’d like to show you the Rodrigue print that I’m thinking about buying. You can give me your thoughts about it. It’s named Sitting with My Sisters. Then, I’ll treat y’all to lunch at Galatoire’s. Professor Joyner, we can celebrate our birthdays ex post facto! How does that sound?"

Maggie said, Alan, that’s so nice. She glanced at Jack, who, with a gleam in his eye, indicated approval.

Jack and I would love to do that. Let’s stay in touch when we get to New Orleans next month. We’re really looking forward to hooking up with you.

Jack had a surprise for Alan. Alan, Faulkner is over there.

He pointed to the back of the study, about fifty feet away. Alan walked to the back wall. Its shelves were home to what must have been all of the great twentieth-century literature. Sure enough, there was Faulkner. His first novel, Soldiers’ Pay (1926), was conspicuous among some of his other, more famous works: The Sound and the Fury (1929), As I Lay Dying (1930), Light in August (1932), Absalom, Absalom! (1936), and Go Down, Moses (1942). Like all the other books surrounding Alan, the Faulkner works seemed so alive and so eager to be caressed, read, and studied.

As he walked back to the coffee table, Alan thought, What an experience this evening has been! I’ve been welcomed by these gracious people into their grand house and this unbelievable room filled with the chronicles of Western civilization. And that desk, that very special, mysterious, awesome desk! What is there about it that so fascinates me?

Mr. and Mrs. Joyner, I’ll never forget this night. Thank you for allowing me into your beautiful home to spend this time with you in this amazing room. Well, it’s pushing 9:30. I should start home. Professor Joyner, you don’t have to walk back with me. I’ll be fine by myself. Good night. I’ll see y’all in class.

I don’t mind accompanying you, Alan. I’ll enjoy the walk.

Alan was pleased. Okay. The company will be good.

Maggie approached as they went to the front door. She hugged Alan, kissed his cheek, and bade him good night. Alan shook her hand and again thanked her for the wonderful evening. Jack and Alan made their way down N Street toward the university. The scholarly duo resembled father and son as they sauntered along the dark sidewalk. Well before they reached 35th Street, Jack was impelled to ask Alan about his obvious fascination with the desk. I saw that the desk intrigued you. What attracted your interest?

Intrigued is much too tame a word, Professor Joyner. That desk has qualities that I can’t quite describe. It inspires reverence. There is something supernatural about it. Energy flows from it—a divine energy.

"I felt the same way when I first saw the desk. I just had left the British Museum one Saturday morning in London and was heading down Russell Street back to the LSE,¹² when I spotted the desk through an antique shop’s window. I couldn’t resist entering the shop to examine it. I suppose that I gawked as I circumnavigated what appeared to be a humongous partners’ desk. But there was no partners’-desk kneehole. The desk, as you saw, is not two-sided. In spite of its size, it was clearly designed for use by one person. I must have examined it for ten minutes before I sat down in the chair—the same chair, Alan, that you sat in. And then, when I surveyed that enormous, shining desktop with its red-oak edging, I felt that I was in the presence of something holy. It was a peaceful sensation, strange and wonderful.

I had to have the desk. I asked the shopkeeper, who all the while had been watching me with curious eyes, the price. She said, ‘Ten thousand pounds, but I’ll throw in the chair gratis.’ Well, being young and uninitiated, I was shocked. I tried to bargain with her, but I got nowhere. Then, a rosy-cheeked gentleman walked up. He introduced himself as Mr. Byrne, the shop’s owner, and said, ‘You look like an honest, sincere young man. From the US, are you? Going to school here?’ I sensed an opening and gave him a quick life history. I must have impressed him. He reduced the price by half. Five thousand pounds back then was about $8,500. I could afford that, but barely. I thanked Mr. Byrne repeatedly and, bubbling with excitement, called my dad, who agreed to arrange for the shipping and storage back home. He received it and stored it for me in his friend’s warehouse in Metairie. It stayed there until Maggie and I moved it here seven years ago.

Involuntarily, Alan’s mouth opened. But, characteristically, he reclaimed his composure.

Professor Joyner, that is, mildly put, an interesting story.

Jack and Alan reached Copley, shook hands, and said good night. Alan climbed Copley’s front steps, still thinking about the desk. Jack headed home, where Maggie and he reminisced about the pleasant evening and enjoyed the reheated pot of tea Maggie had prepared with their young guest in mind. By 11:00, they were ready for bed. Four o’clock would come soon enough.

III

Jack’s alarm erupted at 4:00 a.m., Sunday, October 7. In ten minutes, he would begin his daily run, taking him twice around a two-and-a-half-mile trail that he measured years ago on his bicycle odometer. From home, Jack jogged to 34th and N Streets, down 34th past Prospect Street to M Street, eastward along M to 28th Street, northward up 28th to its intersection with R Street, westward along R Street at Oak Hill Cemetery, across Wisconsin Avenue back to 34th Street, and then down 34th again to M street, from where he duplicated lap one before taking M Street to 33rd Street and finally heading to where he had begun.

The early hour was dark, but Jack, aided by the neighborhood’s streetlights, a headlight fastened around his cap, and total familiarity with Georgetown’s roads and their sundry hazards, managed his charted course easily. The absence of traffic allowed him to run uninterrupted, and by 5:10, when he reached the lion statuette sentinels at 33rd and N Streets, he was perspiring freely and was more than ready for fifteen minutes of calisthenics and a hot shower.

At 9:00, after his breakfast/newspaper time with Maggie, Jack shifted his focus to television and surfed the channels. He settled on Fox, his favorite news network, and witnessed the usual debates among liberals, conservatives, and moderates about terrorism, the economy, and a few other dominant issues.

By 11:30, Maggie and he were ready for lunch. They walked to the Faculty Club, and at noon, they were seated and ready to enjoy the buffet. During the main course, Jack’s cell phone summoned him. The caller was Paul Wolfe. Jack, are you watching the news?

No, Paul. We’re having lunch at the Faculty Club.

Jack, we just began bombing in Afghanistan. US and British planes are targeting Taliban and al-Qaeda locations in Kabul, Kandahar, and Jalalabad. It looks like we’re going all-out. Tomahawk cruise missiles, strike aircraft, and bombers are laying considerable grief on the terrorists.

Thanks for the call, Paul. As soon as Maggie and I finish lunch, we’ll head home and watch the news.

A curious Maggie asked, What’s happened, Jack?

Paul said we just began bombing the crap out of al-Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan. The game is on. Alan called it last night. Bush picked a Sunday to go after the evildoers, and he’s hitting them in Afghanistan.

Jack and Maggie finished lunch and went home to tune in Fox News. On the way there, Jack recalled what he was so sure of on 9/11, when the president was on Air Force One, probably formulating initial plans for a condign response to the attacks. Back then, he was certain the world would hear from Mr. Bush in quick fashion. Indeed, the world was hearing from President Bush and Prime Minister Tony Blair twenty-seven days after the atrocities of 9/11.

Jack remembered what Alan had said last evening at the Tombs: A Sunday response would be appropriate. Sunday brings to mind the Resurrection, and it is the day for our nation to rise from the rubble and defy those who would bury us. He recollected Alan’s words precisely, and he knew it. He asked himself, How is it that I remember Alan’s exact words? As Alan had predicted, the eagle descended from out of the blue to avenge the iniquity that, in the guise of religion, had incinerated innocent workers and commuters in the heart of America. It swooped down over Afghanistan to punish the evildoers, to round them up and … bring them to justice.¹³

Jack had studied World War II. The world back then was saved by those who had the courage to combat evil despite profound sacrifice. Four years after the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom,¹⁴ someone would write about the evil that had led to World War II, an evil indistinguishable from the villainy behind 9/11:

There’s the presence of darkest evil, which can’t be avoided but must be faced head-on. There’s the grim understanding that sacrifice is necessary, that whole worlds are riding on the actions of a handful of individuals. And, in the presence of wickedness so complete as to be supernatural, there’s faith in absolute goodness.¹⁵

Jack would read that quotation in December 2005 in the San Francisco Chronicle, and he would opine: These ideas are unarguable and timeless. They capture the essence of C. S. Lewis’s philosophy, the perspective that there is an objective moral order. There is right; there is wrong. There is good; there is evil. And the only force that can defeat evil is its antipode.

Jack was a philosopher. He saw Operation Enduring Freedom as much more than a military encounter. It was part and parcel of the war of ideas, a conflict that for the foreseeable future would be waged principally by combatants wielding guns, bombs, and missiles. But the philosophers’ day would arrive. In due time, they would become the warriors in the unrelenting contest between darkness and light, a contest involving the notion of postmodernism. Jack understood the coming battle and its unprecedented challenges. But he was unaware that he would be among this new war’s chief participants.

3

THE NIGHTINGALE

That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air …

The streets of town were paved with stars. It was such a romantic affair. And, as we kissed and said goodnight, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.¹⁶

I

The fall semester was undeterred by the trauma of 9/11. October had arrived and left, unimpeded, November was in full swing, and final exams were only a month away. Jack was exceptionally pleased with the progress of his proseminar. The class had met every Tuesday morning for three hours, and the exchanges among the students had progressed, by the third meeting, from ad hominem squabble (exception: Alan) to dispassionate, well-reasoned argument by blossoming philosophers (with Alan leading the way).

Jack was a stickler for pure philosophical analysis and good writing. He periodically assigned short essays, all requiring research and analysis that, hopefully, would empower his understudies to identify and resolve the issues to be presented in the final paper. As he examined the writings of his young charges, he was most impressed by their eagerness to wrestle with the profundities generated by some of the great thinkers, ancient and modern.

He already had formulated the question for the course’s final and most important paper, due on December 17:

"Samuel Huntington¹⁷ believes that the world of the twenty-first century will be a contest among cultures: ‘The rivalry of the superpowers is replaced by the clash of civilizations … Civilizations, not states, are becoming the crucial factors in international relations, with Islam and China as major challengers to Western domination.’ Huntington links terrorism to the cultural/civilizational discord between Islam and Judeo-Christianity.

"Bernard-Henri Levy¹⁸ dismisses Huntington’s theory that the world is witnessing a clash of civilizations. He asserts, ‘We are engaged in a war against terrorism, but the war is a political one, not a religious one, not a civilizational one.’ Levy distinguishes between political and civilizational: ‘You have some Muslims who do not hate the West. Being an enemy of the West is not a necessary condition of being Muslim, of adoring the God of Islam … It is suicide to say that this is a civilizational war because, if it is such, it is an endless war, bloc against bloc.’

"Do you possess the philosophical resources necessary to respond to the terrorism crisis? If so, demonstrate this capacity. If you believe that you do not have the ability, as a philosopher, to unmask terrorism, explain your belief.

What are the deficiencies, if any, in (1) Huntington’s position, and/or (2) Levy’s opinion?

Jack presented the final paper assignment on November 13. With it, he suggested two additional readings, The Abolition of Man¹⁹ and We Wish To Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families: Stories from Rwanda.²⁰ After he dismissed the class, which would resume on November 27, Jack’s attention turned to New Orleans. He eagerly anticipated going home to see his parents, to visit the church where Maggie and he were married, to celebrate their seventh anniversary, and to enjoy life in the Big Easy. He would devote the next few days to reading, grading papers, and helping Maggie prepare for their trip.

II

John Joseph Joyner and Margaret Mary Burke had found each other in 1986. Jack was a first-year graduate student at the London School of Economics,²¹ pursuing a master of philosophy degree, while Maggie was a Rhodes Scholar at Magdalen College, Oxford,²² chasing her graduate degree in general linguistics and comparative philology.

On a perfectly clear October night in London, Jack decided to seek respite from his studies and walk to Mayfair, his favorite London neighborhood and home to Shepherd Market and its quaint little pubs and restaurants. He left the LSE at Kingsway and headed to High Holborn. At High Holborn, he turned left and proceeded a few blocks to Shaftesbury, which eventually conjoined Piccadilly. Jack strolled down Piccadilly toward Shepherd Market. But, instinctively, he made a right turn at Berkeley²³ Street and headed to the little garden park in Berkeley Square, a tranquil place he had visited during his first week in London, two months earlier.

He arrived at the park and found a bench. He enjoyed the beautiful starlit night and the marvelous Mayfair backdrop. A lone songbird’s melody interrupted, pleasantly so, the square’s silence. Jack looked across the lawn at one of the park’s lofty plane maple trees. His eye caught the figure of a young woman, looking up into the tree, apparently in search of the creature responsible for the beguiling sound. Jack left the bench and walked over to her. As if to listen to the conversation, the songbird stopped singing.

Hello. I suppose that you’re looking for the songbird. It sings so … how shall I put it … deliciously. Do you know what it is? Thinking that she was British, Jack hoped he had sounded appropriately cosmopolitan.

In a rather refined mid-Western accent, she replied, It’s a nightingale. I used to hear them all the time when I was a child. My father took me to Golden Gate Park every Saturday morning. During the spring, the nightingales would settle in and entertain whoever wanted to listen. They seemed to love Golden Gate Park.

Well, thought Jack, so much for trying to be sophisticated. She’s American, and I feel goofy. He saw his new acquaintance was not at all impressed by his faux Britishness. So, he concealed his chagrin and decided to try to be himself.

You’re from San Francisco?

Yeah. What about you?

New Orleans.

Really? I’ve never been, but I’m told that the Crescent City is much like its sister out west.

It is—very much so. I’ve been to San Francisco, and I guess you could say that New Orleans is San Francisco without hills. And, of course, without the stunning views. Jack extended his hand. I’m Jack.

The young lady accommodated Jack with a firm handshake. I’m Maggie.

It’s so nice to meet you, Maggie. What brings you to London?

School. I’m studying at Oxford for the next two years. And what are you doing in London, Jack?

Like you, I’m doing school—the London School of Economics for the next two years.

What are you studying, Jack?

Mainly philosophy. I’m also interested in economics and political theory. And you?

"Linguistics. I’m addicted to languages. Somehow, I’ve become fluent in Russian, Arabic, and French. My next target is Chinese, which I think I can master on my own before my time here is up.

Philosophy, economics, and political theory. That’s an interesting combination, Jack. You must hope to become a professor.

Jack was taken by Maggie’s intuition about his wanting to be a professor. He also was impressed by her bold, calm demeanor. Maggie was distinctly an intellectual, but she was not in the least arrogant. There was positively nothing counterfeit about her. Those qualities captivated Jack. He sought again to impress her.

Philosophy and political theory are quite related. They are creatures of purely a priori knowledge and argument. Economics is unique; it combines the a priori and a posteriori approaches.

Jack instantly realized his regression. His effort to be himself had fallen woefully short.

Maggie, am I being a pretentious nerd, or what? You probably know more about the a priori/a posteriori distinction than I do. And here I am, trying to impress you, the linguist, with a smidgen of Latin. Please forgive me.

It’s nice of you to apologize, Jack, but an apology isn’t necessary. You’re just trying to impress me, and you don’t know quite how to go about it.

A vivid blush betrayed Jack’s embarrassment. Seeing his discomfort, Maggie shifted gears. Jack, would you like to join me for dinner? I’m alone, far away from home, and so are you. Maybe we can console each other.

Oh, great! Have you been to Shepherd Market? It’s a few blocks away. There’s a nice little French restaurant there … and a great pub where we can have a drink after dinner.

This is my first night, Jack. I haven’t been anywhere yet. I’m glad you know your way around. Let’s try Shepherd Market.

The young companions walked down Berkeley Street toward Piccadilly on Jack’s roundabout route to Shepherd Market. The nightingale, as if to bid them good night (but not good-bye), broke its silence, began its crescendo, and continued to sing until they vanished. Then, it fell silent once again.

When they reached the intersection of Berkeley and Piccadilly, Maggie took Jack’s hand. She said nothing. Surprised but complaisant, Jack offered no resistance. They had met about a half hour ago, but it seemed already to Jack that Maggie and he were old acquaintances. And he was certain Maggie felt the same way.

They turned right at Piccadilly. A few blocks later, they entered narrow White Horse Street and made their way to Shepherd Market’s Le Boudin Blanc, a cozy bistro, where they enjoyed a leisurely dinner amid the noise and chaos for which the charming establishment was known. They talked about their childhoods, their families, and other aspects of their brief but rich lives. The congruity of their short life histories was pronounced.

Maggie, the Rhodes Scholar, was born in San Francisco two months before Jack in 1964. She attended the most rigorous Catholic schools of the Archdiocese of San Francisco and earned a full scholarship to Stanford, from which she graduated summa cum laude in 1986. Maggie was an only child. Her father was a prominent San Francisco attorney, still quite actively practicing. Her mother was a professor of French at UC Berkeley. When she left Stanford, Maggie was fluent in Russian, Arabic, and French. After Oxford, she planned to return to Stanford to secure her PhD in linguistics. She aspired to be a college professor.

Jack was a product of New Orleans’s best parochial schools. He graduated summa cum laude from venerable Jesuit High School and went to Georgetown’s esteemed School of Foreign Service where, despite a stubborn, debilitating illness, he graduated magna cum laude in philosophy and economics in 1986. Jack was an only child. His father was a Tulane University law professor and a foremost expert in maritime law. His mother was a French professor at Loyola University. After Georgetown, Jack entered the London School of Economics, where he was determined to come to grips with the brutally arcane works of the great philosophers, economists, and political theorists. Like Maggie, he was preparing for Stanford, where he would seek his doctorate in philosophy.

After dinner, Jack asked the waiter for the check. Maggie graciously thanked him. He asked, Are you catching the train back to Oxford tonight? It’s already ten—kind of late for a young lady to travel alone.

Oh, no. I’m not going back to Oxford until Sunday. I want to see some of London.

Jack tried to conceal his delight. Where are you staying?

At the Chancery Court on High Holborn.

"Really? That’s just a few blocks down the street from my dorm. The LSE is a block or two behind your hotel. That section of town is called ‘Legal London.’ The Royal Courts of Justice are there. So are the Inns of Court, what we know as bar associations. Your hotel is