The Valkyries

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Of course. Paulo always had contacts. He referred to such people as members of the Tradition; but when Chris described them in her diary, she referred to them as the “Conspiracy.” Among them were sorcerers and witch doctors—the kind of people one has nightmares about.

“Someone who speaks with angels?”

“I’m not sure. One time, J. referred—just in passing—to a master of the Tradition who lives here, and who knows how to communicate with the angels. But that might just be a rumor.”

He might have been speaking seriously, but Chris knew that he might also have just selected a place at random, one of the many places where he had “contacts.” A place that was far from their daily life, and where he could concentrate better on the Extraordinary.

“How are you going to speak to your angel?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

What a strange way to live, thought Chris. She looked at her husband as he walked over to pay the bill. All she knew was that he felt he had to speak with the angels, and that was that! Drop everything, jump on a plane, fly for twelve hours from Brazil to Los Angeles, drive for six hours to this gas station, arm himself with enough patience to remain here for forty days: all of this in order to speak—or rather, try to speak—with his guardian angel!

He laughed at her, and she smiled back. After all, this wasn’t all that bad. They had their occasional daily irritations—paying bills, cashing checks, paying courtesy calls, accepting some tough times.

But they still believed in angels.

“We’ll do it,” she said.

“Thanks for the ‘we,’” he answered with a smile. “But I’m the magus around here.”