Incarnation

By Peter Ferko

Incarnation follows a journalist, an actor, a writer, and a programmer whose dreams and desires play out together on the global stage, again and again. Each time, they find meaning as they spin on life’s mysterious wheel of fortune.

Full of historical backstory, contemporary topics, and future speculation, Incarnation is a mix of a romantic political thriller and a philosophical "what if," reminiscent of the film Sliding Doors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Ferko
• Release date: Feb 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524270322

Book preview

INCARNATION

a novel

by Peter Ferko

Incarnation

© 2016 Peter Ferko

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Special thanks to Lale Davidson, Amir Parsa, Anya Szykitka, Alan Finger, and Wendy Newton for your input on this book, and on life in general in this incarnation.

The cover art incorporates a photograph of a

1962 Tandberg television by Bjoertvedt (Own work)

[CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)],

via Wikimedia Commons. Additional cover art by Peter Ferko.

Other books by Peter Ferko

Wally and Kali

The Black Hole of the Heart

see

www.peterferko.com

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.

— Robert Frost

CHAPTER ONE

Ryoko and Joey

~ Washington, D.C., 2038 ~

Joey’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden jerk; his driver cursed, then apologized. Joey looked up and saw a mob blocking the way to the Buddhist temple where his wife’s ultimate nothingness would be affirmed. In the street and on the sidewalks of the block, that nothingness was being passionately denied by a thousand fans holding Ryoko’s picture — the one from Newsweek’s latest cover. All were longing for a reprieve that gave them back the hero who had turned television from a cesspool of self-indulgence into the most powerful vehicle for change the world had ever known.

Joey slouched deeper into the soft leather seat and resumed brooding behind his Persol sunglasses, the silver hinges highlighting the plentiful flecks of gray. He replayed in his mind the last thing his wife said to him …

She had called out from the hospital bed. He turned and asked, What is it, Love? She gazed at him, and in her eyes, he saw the essence of the teenage girl he had fallen in love with almost fifty years ago. What? he repeated, smiling. 

She smiled back and said, Thank you for being Joey Coe.

It was not idle, it was not sentimental. It was like the conclusion of a transaction, and he couldn’t quite let go of the strange feeling of déjà vu it left him with.

Lucy Lubczyk stepped out of the car ahead. She twirled her rusty blond ponytail to gather it into a single curl and turned a sympathetic smile on the crowd before looking to the car behind hers, which held the widower. Billy joined her from the opposite side of the car. She took off Billy’s baseball cap and threw it into the back seat. He entwined his mahogany-colored hand with Lucy’s pale counterpart, their matching rings kissing. They walked back to Joey’s car, and Billy opened the door for Joey, helping him out and placing him between them; they were a cape protecting him from the reality of the event.

The driver came around to close the back door as they walked away. He leaned in and picked up the New York Times that lay folded on the back seat. Settling back in behind the steering wheel, he glanced at the page before turning to the sports section. Atop the obituary’s columns was a photo of Ryoko Kimura receiving a special Emmy as the founder of Veritage.

~ India, 1988 ~

A seventeen-year-old with a shock of black hair sat with his schoolmates in the sun facing his guru. The Indian sun beat down on the boys, and they shifted restlessly on their blankets.

Krishna Anand ran his hand pointlessly over his incorrigible hair and looked intently at the guru. His teacher was talking about something that the boy thought might actually be useful for a change, something that might help in his ruminations about staying in Tumkur to be near the object of his teen obsession: the girl Kamalita. Krishna’s and his fellow students’ circumstances were about to change as they approached the final days of their Gurukula, the traditional Hindu education that gives students a foundation in philosophy and an attitude of living honorably out in the world. Soon they would leave school and move on toward adulthood and worldly pursuits.

Krishna was drawn to Kamalita, but he also longed to go to university to study his two previous passions: computers and TV. Before Kamalita lit up on his radar, he had even dreamed of going to America to study.

He wanted his teacher’s advice, but mentioning Kamalita in front of his friends would get him kidded and mocked as only teenagers can do. He decided on a roundabout approach. He would talk about work and let it lead to the question of staying or going. He raised his hand and asked the rotund holy man sitting in the only shade on the patio, Guruji, how does one know one’s dharma — how should I decide what work to do in life?

The teacher’s voice was high and sweet, like flute tones. Karma works through you to pick your dharma, young Krishna, you do not have to determine it. The world is telling its fantastic story: the karma is the action; the dharma the roles. You are a player in the cast of billions.

It was an intriguing idea, and Krishna set aside his current conundrum to consider the larger implication of his teacher’s words. He finally said, That makes me feel so insignificant, but in my heart I feel like I have an important place in the world.

Your wisdom is sound, Krishnaji, but your perspective reflects your youth, the teacher answered. Then he turned his gaze to include the rest of the boys, one who was dozing off and a couple who were swatting at flies. He spoke despite their lack of attention. If you take the multitude of stones that form a bridge, each one plays a critical role, yet is one of many. If you look at the flowers in a field, each radiates with complete beauty whether it ends up as an admired individual blossom in this vase here or remains part of a blanket of color in the meadow.

Krishna remembered his main objective and tried to steer the teacher back toward his question, blurting out, So are you saying, Guruji, that it does not matter what I do in life?

As you have studied, young Krishna, you must learn to trust the inspiration coming from meditation, then apply your intellect to choose the course you believe is right. That trust makes it easier to swim with the current of karma, not back and forth questioning it.

But don’t important choices matter? Say, if I stay in my town or move to another land?

Every moment offers you choices. Some seem insignificant, like whether you take another piece of naan from the breadbasket; others seem like they will change the course of your life, like choosing to stay in your town or move elsewhere. Ultimately, though, it is impossible, with our limited perspective, to know which are significant.

Two boys started giggling as they pointed at a young girl walking a short distance away. One punched the other in the shoulder. A look from their teacher made both boys sit tall and stare at the ground ahead.

The teacher looked back and saw that Krishna was struggling with the vagueness of his advice. Krishna, make your best decision and do not worry about the outcome — leave every choice as though you had just decided whether to have another piece of naan.

But what if I make the wrong decision? he said, wondering what would happen if he left Kamalita for a while to go to study in America.

Around every stone of choice you throw into the infinite river of karma, the karma will continue to flow. You cannot interupt life’s ongoing story, dear boy.

Krishna was sitting with his knees drawn in, chin in hands and fingers touching his forehead above the bridge of his chiseled nose. Then, as though a message had been delivered, his eyes lit up. So we do what we think is best, and everything adjusts — like the universe is writing a new ending to a TV show? The comment brought giggles from the rest of the boys.

The teacher approved, though. You are clever, Krishna. That is a good metaphor … The guru let the image set before adding a nuance, … but do not mistake time for a linear path, like the road between here and Mumbai. Time is also a player in the great drama of life; its role is to provide the appearance of progression. Our stories need time to be interesting. In truth, all things have already happened, all things are happening now, all things will happen into eternity — like reruns on your beloved television, Krishna. It is time that lets us experience life as we do.

Krishna stared into his teacher’s eyes and nodded slowly as he imagined a TV show spinning off endless variations.

A cowbell beaten by the cook sounded lunch and broke Krishna’s meditation. The guru released the boys. You see, time pretends things have progressed — however, I am not sure you understand any better! Very well, enjoy your lunch. Namaste.

A chorus of Namaste rang from the young teens as they jumped up and ran toward the dining building, which was pouring forth an aroma of curry and freshly baked naan.

~ Washington, 2038 ~

All the religions do that, Joey said, gazing through the golden Macallan scotch in his glass.

Do what? Billy asked.

Get stuck wearing the same clothes they did ages ago. Don’t they know that those robes are just what everyone wore back then — when the symbols became dogma?

Lucy laughed. You mean, if a religion started in the eighties, everyone would be wearing shoulder pad jackets and have ponytails coming off the side of their heads?

Joey couldn’t help smiling at Lucy’s big laugh, but replied Look at Catholics with their Roman-era robes … or drive through south Williamsburg, it’s nineteenth-century Poland — I’m sorry, that’s not cool, he said. Then he added under his breath, It just felt weird seeing her in robes … and seeing her in a box. A tear rolled down his cheek and he turned his head away from Lucy.

Lucy got up from her chair and moved around the coffee table to slide up close to Joey on the couch. She hugged him from the side and pulled his head onto her shoulder. She looked beautiful, she whispered.

Billy had escaped his jacket and tie and was wearing his baseball cap with the Veritage logo. He watched his wife comfort their best friend; there was a palpable absence in the apartment without Ryoko. Lucy looked over at Billy and opened her eyes a little wider. He softly shrugged his shoulders and lowered his gaze. He noticed today’s newspaper on the table.

"Was that Times story yesterday accurate about how you met?" Billy asked.

I didn’t read it. What did it say?

Just tell us how you met, Lucy piped up.

We met on the steps of the Met —

The art museum? Billy clarified, wondering if it should be obvious.

Yeah, I was just hanging out — we were teenagers at the time. She and her cousins started messing with me. It caught me by surprise. I was pretty shy and here were these cute Japanese girls teasing me.

The paper said she came up with your stage name, Billy reported with a lilt, as if asking for corroboration.

Ha. That is so weird, Billy! I’ve been struggling all morning with something she said. You just solved it.

What? Billy asked. He was never confident about his intellectual skills.

The last thing she said to me. Now I get it … He paused, then smiled. It was about the day we met. He turned to Lucy and his face lit up. Her cousins were visiting from Japan, and she made up a whole scenario …

~ New York, 1991 ~

Joseph Keats Jones sat on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He routinely rested here after visiting parts of the collection, which he was doing a lot during the summer after he graduated from high school. A gaggle of teenage Japanese girls sporting a cacophony of fashion accessories approached him. Though they were speaking Japanese, one of the girls turned and spoke to him in English, without any accent. Yo, Dude. What’s your name?

Joe K. Jones, yo, he answered, using a version of his name he was trying on as a nom de plume for his imagined future as a writer.

One of the other girls said something in Japanese including the name Yoko Ono, and the whole group giggled. The first girl replied in Japanese to her friends, laughing, then turned back to Joseph and said, My friend from Tokyo says you’re the TV star Joe Ko Jono. We’d know that smile anywhere!

Joseph blushed. I wish, but I’m not.

Dude, you look just like him, though! The other girls were all rattling on in Japanese. I’m Ryoko. I’m a TV special reporter. Too bad you’re not Joe Ko; we could go out and get chased by paparazzi.

Joseph felt like a dream was taking place. One minute, he’s a bored high school graduate; the next, he’s considering playing make-believe with attractive playmates. He stared at the ground and looked for something to say in the flecked stone steps. There wasn’t anything there. It left an uncomfortable pause.

Well, at least let us take our picture with you! Ryoko said, and waved at her girlfriends to come and sit around him. She stepped over to the handrail and snapped a photo, the plastic Polaroid spitting out a white image-to-be. Then she handed the camera to her friend and gave her instructions in Japanese. Ryoko sat next to Joseph and turned as if kissing him on the cheek. Her lips brushed him and he felt a vibration run from his cheek to his pelvis. The whirring camera motor pushed out the next picture, and Ryoko fished a pen out of her vinyl knapsack. She handed Joseph the ghost portrait and said, Here, autograph please: To Ryoko, Love Joe Ko.

Joseph took a deep breath that seemed to hold itself. When it finally released, he grinned, chuckled, then signed the square print and handed it to her. She read it aloud and laughed at the poetic symmetry, To Ryo-ko, Love Joey Coe! He gazed at her as she watched the emerging picture. Ryoko was the most beautiful girl he had seen in his teen life. His cheek was still humming from her kiss. He sat up tall, heaved a nervous sigh, then whispered to her, I think we can escape the paparazzi in my penthouse.

After dozens of city blocks of laughter, mock fights, pizza, dessert, and cups of tea, they dropped the Japanese entourage at a movie theater near his apartment on East 80th Street, where they watched a blockbuster about a rabbit. Joey and Ryoko used the time to make out in his bedroom, while, in the next room, his parents complained about the show on TV.

~ India, 1988 ~

Kamalita Singh lived in the town below the ashram and sometimes accompanied her mother, a florist who provided flowers for the buildings where Krishna Anand attended Gurukula. Kamalita’s deep brown eyes first noticed Krishna four years ago, staring at her from behind the corner of the dining building. He ducked back behind the corner, and she turned her gaze ahead to allow him to resume his admiration. Ever since she was a young girl, she noticed how boys looked at her. At first, she felt like she did something wrong, because they seemed guilty as they turned away or looked down at the ground as she passed.

When she reached puberty, she became interested in the television shows that poured from her parents’ color Sony; shows that explained what she had been experiencing — not explicitly, but by showing the prevalent effect. She saw how the TV starlets used this reaction as power over boys.

Kamalita began talking about her experiences with her girlfriends, who had experienced similar reactions in varying degrees. She seemed to have an abundance of power over boys and while the girlfriends did not expressly rank each other, Kamalita held an esteemed position as the holder of the highest degree of seductive power.

Of all the boys and men who seemed to fall under her sway, Krishna Anand made her feel different. While she was happy to experience her power with others, Kamalita looked forward to playing magnet to Krishna’s eyes. She felt that he had a power over her, too, and wondered if this was how the attraction she wielded felt to others. She asked her mother if scientists studied what made people feel.

Kamalita’s mother, Angarika, was not unaware of the effect her daughter’s appeal had on the opposite sex. Nor was she unfamiliar with the sensations, being even more beautiful than her quite lovely daughter. The mother took a special interest in the budding curiosity that was developing between her daughter and the teenager Krishna Anand. She knew that Krishna’s father was a businessman in nearby Bangalore, and, as a mother, was intrigued by the possibility that Kamalita could marry into such a family.

To secure Krishna, Angarika began cultivating Kamalita’s skills in seduction. While it may have been possible for their families to arrange a wedding, it was unlikely. Angarika had lost her husband several years ago, and though they were very well off for a family in Tumkur, they offered no special appeal compared to the numerous families in the Anand’s hometown. No, she would use the love approach, which was gaining popularity in India, thanks to the prevalence of American television programs and the corresponding Western influence on Indian film and TV.

Angarika gave her daughter lessons in how to walk with a balance of allure and decorum, so as to maximize her appeal while avoiding appearing promiscuous. She taught her how to address the object of her affections using the downturned eyes that Kamalita had witnessed in the boys who were attracted to her, and how to look up at Krishna when her head was tilted down to increase the power of her magnetism. She taught her subtle makeup techniques that enhanced her daughter’s dark eyes with lines outlining the lower lids. Her daughter was a willing, but slow student, shy by nature and more adept at science than dramatics.

Krishna Anand’s father made a phone call to his son. The period of his Gurukula was concluding, and Krishna’s very traditional father expected his son to turn to studies of the family business. Krishna had little interest in the small chain of inns that his father maintained for business travelers. The stucco boxes with their neat and clean lines looked like boring buildings Krishna saw in movies shot in Hollywood. While he had done one interesting project for his father’s business — setting up a computerized reservation system — most of the work he had done for the hotel chain felt like failed efforts for his unsatisfiable father.

The conversation between the Anands, father and son, was not very fruitful and ended with an ultimatum concerning money, university, and relocation. As the phone call ended, Krishna imagined his father plopping his compact but substantial weight onto the divan next to Krishna’s mother and delivering his typical oratory about how no one saw how hard he worked to provide opportunities for his son.

Angarika heard rumors that Krishna would be heading back to Bangalore shortly. She was unwilling to let go of such a good opportunity for her daughter and tried to accelerate their training program, condensing her life’s knowledge of bringing men under one’s spell into a one-week crash course.

Angarika arranged for a meeting between the two teens on a day that coincided with Mr. Anand’s arrival in town to collect his son. It was a simple plan: let Kamalita show Krishna that she was open to a proposal; let Mr. Anand see that his son was in love with Angarika’s daughter. The stage would then be set for continued discussion, even if the Anands were back home in Bangalore.

Invitations were sent and accepted, leaving the challenge in Kamalita’s court. Her mother was not confident of Kamalita’s ability to rise to this challenge. She hurriedly contrived a plan in which she would always be nearby to help Kamalita maximize her chances, through a suggested line or act. There was no time to organize a formal means of communicating these Cyrano de Bergerac-isms, so Angarika was going to aim to continually find pretenses to be in the presence of the lovers-to-be.

On the day of the meeting, Krishna arrived first and was ushered into the sitting room with Kamalita. The seduction got off to an immediate bad start. Angarika’s direction to tilt her chin down while looking up was interpreted so awkwardly by the nervous girl that Krishna became concerned.

Kamalitaji, whatever is the matter with your neck? Do you need me to send for help?

She gasped, then transformed her gaping mouth into a sort of laugh. I’m so embarassed; I dropped an earring and was trying discreetly to look for it on the floor.

Krishna came to her aid, Let me help you find it!

Angarika was listening just outside the doorway of the sitting room and hurriedly came in, claiming to be looking for a letter she had left on the desk. Kamalita and Krishna were both crawling around by the sofa looking for the earring that Kamalita had securely in her earlobe. Krishna yelped when he ripped a hole in his trousers on a bent nail protruding from the lower edge of the sofa — it had been one of the flower-headed furniture tacks that secured the upholstery, but had lost its head in a rearranging last year. Kamalita crawled close to him and began