Angel's Body

3. Pilgrimage-2

I headed towards the television studio where Gina had spent her last moments on earth, before she’d been brutally slain, and stood at the front of the gates. The masses of flowers that had been laid here were now long gone. At the base of one of the brick pillars to the side of the gate was a small bronze plaque. It blended in with the bricks so well most people wouldn’t have seen it. The plaque said, Gina Malakh, another victim of September 11. It was the first of many signs I was to see of how Gina had touched the hearts and souls of so many people.

A security guard came up to the gate and asked, “Are you here for the studio tour?”

Instinctively I nodded my head. I had planned to slip into the studio undetected. If I could legitimately see the site, even better. I wanted to see the place where it had happened — the place where my baby had stood her ground instead of running away. How I wished that she had run, yet all my wishes, and the ability to make them reality, couldn’t change the past. The past had already been written, and there was no going back, not ever.

If the tour turned out to be some tacky marketing ploy I would shut it down somehow. An electrical fire or earthquake would do sufficient damage to warrant the studio be condemned. None would be the wiser that it was a deliberate act of sabotage.

“It doesn’t start for another couple of hours. Why don’t you come back at half twelve. You don’t need to queue up if you’ve got your ticket,” he said.

“Okay, thanks,” I replied.

I need a ticket. Give me a ticket. I patted the front pocket of my jeans and felt a small, thin, rectangular piece of cardboard appear in my pocket.

To while away the hours before the tour began, I walked the city streets looking for signs that Gina had passed this way. The amount of graffiti I encountered was staggering, though for the most part it would be considered street art, as the quality of the work was astounding. It appeared even taggers found the work amazing, as they had not vandalised any art on the walls and fences, yet power poles and the like were covered in unsightly tags.

A wall at least thirty metres long was dedicated solely to Gina, and numerous street artists had contributed to it. This was their way of paying tribute to her. I stopped at each piece of work and studied it in detail, looking for clues as to what Gina may have done for the person who’d drawn it, if anything, and who they were.

I saw a delicate pair of hands with long, slender fingers reaching out, and knew they were Gina’s. Beneath the hands the artist, or someone else, had written in a beautiful script, touch someone today, and I knew they meant to reach out and help someone. There was nothing sordid or sleazy about it at all.

I moved onto the next work of art — Gina’s smiling face. The artist had even captured the right shade of green for her eyes. It was such a realistic portrait I was tempted to kiss her cheek and brush away the stray strand of hair the artist had seen fit to partially cover one eye. Her whole face smiled and said, be happy, I love you. There was no caption below this illustration and I tried unsuccessfully to think of one that would be fitting. Everything seemed too cliché or had been said dozens of times before.

In the middle of the lengthy wall, someone had seen fit to draw a full length picture of Gina from behind. I felt that this was the first painting that had been done, and all others branched out from it. Her head peered over her shoulder, a smiling face once again, and she had a hand on one hip. She wore a white, sleeveless, figure-hugging dress that came down to her knees, and had a low, draped back that revealed her shoulder blades. Her butt protruded more than it should, and I realised why the artist had done this when I read the caption beneath it — kiss my heavenly butt — and laughed. I was even more surprised when a couple of people stopped at the painting and leaned in to do just that — kiss her butt. When they saw my puzzled look, they seemed a little embarrassed. Then they looked from Gina’s face to mine, noting the similarities. My own bewildered look was reflected in their faces.

“Why did you kiss her butt?” I asked.

“Some people have said she’s still performing miracles. We reckon it can’t hurt to try,” the girl, probably not quite out of her teens, said.

“What miracle do you need?” I asked curiously.

“Is it you?” the young man with her whispered in awe. “Are you Gina?”

“No, I’m not Gina,” I laughed softly. “I’m too short, my eyes are the wrong colour and I don’t have the patience and endless love she had.”

“But you look so much like her,” he said.

“That’s because,” I sighed, wanting to tell them, but not wanting to tell them. “I think we’re distantly related somewhere along the way.

“So kissing her butt, is that kind of like rubbing a Buddha’s belly for luck and good fortune?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders, “I guess.”

I wondered what miracle these young people needed if they were willing to kiss a painting on a wall in the middle of the street.

“Sorry to bother you again, but can you tell me what time it is?” I asked them.

The girl looked at her watch and said, “Twelve-fifteen.”

I couldn’t believe I’d spent almost two hours at this wall, looking at the art and watching people come and go. It was time to head back to the studio.

“Okay, thanks,” I said, and turned to head back in the direction I’d come from.

“Hey, where are you going?” the young man asked.

“I’ve got a studio tour,” I called over my shoulder.

“Really?” he asked, running up to me. “I’ve heard it’s really good.”

“This is my first time, so I wouldn’t know.” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Did you want to go?”

The girl came up to us and slipped her hand into his, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, but we can’t afford it.”

“I’ve got spare tickets,” I said. “I was supposed to go with a couple of friends, but they couldn’t make it.”

It was a small white lie, and I wasn’t hurting anyone except maybe the studio fat-cats and their profit margins. Big deal. I’m sure they could wear the price of a few tickets. The publicity alone that Gina’s death had created was a boon to them. I thought of my ticket and added a couple more to my pocket.

“We can’t pay you back,” the girl said, pouting.

“It doesn’t matter,” I grinned. “I didn’t pay for them.”

“Cool,” she said. “My name, believe it or not, is Gina.”

“No way,” I said. “What are the odds of meeting a Gina at Gina’s wall?

“Yes way,” she laughed, “and the odds today were obviously stacked in your favour. And this is Dan.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I scoffed, thinking of the painting over the fireplace back at the cottage. “Gina and Danny.”

“Dan,” he corrected me.

“Dan, Danny, Danizriel, it’s all the same,” I laughed. “Do you want to know my name?”

“Sure,” Gina said.

“Helena,” I whispered conspiratorially. “Just like Gina’s mother. Talk about a world full of coincidences.”

The three of us laughed and chatted as we headed towards the studio. Gina told me the miracle she was looking for was that her mother would find peace at last. Gina’s younger brother had committed suicide and her mother felt she was to blame somehow — for not knowing he was depressed, or seeing the signs that all was not well — and was wracked with guilt. I nodded my head in sympathy for her plight. Gina may not have committed suicide, but it look a long time for me to find some measure of peace that she was gone, and only then it was with Gina’s help.

Quite a few people were already walking through the gates when we arrived at the studio. I felt anxious about being in this place, scared of what the vibe might be, and afraid the echoes of Gina’s last moments might still be lingering around.

“Are you okay?” Gina asked. “You look a little sad.”

“I’m fine,” I said with a smile, and looped my arm through hers. “Let’s get a move on.”

We walked through the gates and headed to the waiting area where a small crowd was gathered. I slid my hand deep into my pocket, and with a little bit of effort — tight jeans with deep pockets are a bad idea — removed three slightly creased tickets. I handed them over to the security guard and he studied them closely. I wondered if my copies were not as good as the originals. Had we been found out? I didn’t want Gina and Dan to get in trouble for something I had done.

When the guard had finished scrutinising the tickets he ripped them in half, handed back the stubs, and waved us on. I hoped no one heard the small sigh of relief pass my lips.

The tour started in a darkened room where the interview with Natalie and Gina was replayed. It was the first time I’d actually seen it, and I laughed softly at some of the things Gina said that I thought were funny — typical of the sort of thing Gina would say. I didn’t care that the matronly woman on my right was giving me a stare that would have brought even the most unruly of people in line. Who was she to judge me, the mother of the woman whose interview we were watching?

I leaned to my left so that I could whisper in Gina’s ear without disturbing anyone else, and cupped my hand around my mouth as though I were about to share a secret.

“She was so honest and forthright,” I whispered. “There’s a refreshing naivety to her. Do you think that was part of her appeal?”

“Maybe,” Gina whispered. “I felt she was someone I could believe in.”

I smiled. “Everyone needs someone or something to believe in. She was as good a choice as any.”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Gina explained patiently. “It was more like I was drawn to her, like matter to a black hole, only she was a bright shining light.”

“She had a way with people, didn’t she,” I said.

“She sure did,” Gina replied.

We watched the rest of the interview in silence. I laughed a number of times behind my hand, pretending to stifle a yawn.

The program finished just after Gina had stated she believed in God, approximately fifty minutes into the show. It was something nice to end on, before the shooting began. A tactful move I thought. It would have been in poor taste to show Gina’s death over and over again.

“If you’d like to follow me,” our guide said, “we’ll continue on to the studio now.”

Everyone stood up and made their way to the door. I was happy to hang around the back and be the last to enter. Gina and Dan held hands and went on ahead of me.

There was a notice on the wall to the side of the door that caught my eye. It said, All proceeds from the studio tour are donated to the Gina Malakh Foundation. The Foundation was set up to help continue Gina’s work aiding the sick, homeless, elderly and anyone else in need. I would have to remember to send the studio some money for the three tickets we had used to gain entry. If the money was to go to a Foundation set up in Gina’s name, I wanted to help. In fact, a sizable donation was in order.

I took a deep breath and walked through the same door the studio audience would have been ushered through. I strode up the stairs to the back row and walked along it until I was in the middle of the row. I flipped down a seat and sat on it to look at the stage. I saw exactly where Gina would have been seated during the interview, and where she would have stood when she died. I detected what appeared to be washed out blood on the studio floor, though I knew it would have been thoroughly cleaned. I was seeing a ghost image of what had been — a large pool of blood.

I heard the last few minutes of Gina’s life in my head. The ghostly images played out the event, not only in front of me, but all around me. I saw the man in the seat I occupied reach behind the seat and retrieve a gun. I saw all six men stand up and repeatedly fire at Gina, and how she stood there with her arms outstretched, defying them by smiling. The ethereal tragedy continued on to its climax until Gina’s body disappeared, when I’d summoned her back to Eden.