BIA Ch. 122

“But you must have been surprised to find him in the mafia.”

Was I surprised? Isaiah wondered, scrubbing his hair with soapy hands. It felt more like sadness. Did he decide to follow his father’s path after all? Can blood ties truly not be overcome? Can a person never defeat fate, no matter how hard they struggle? All sorts of thoughts ran through his mind.

“In a way… yes, that’s right. He did follow in his father’s footsteps.”

“Exactly.”

After thoroughly scrubbing his scalp, Isaiah turned the shower lever again. Hot water poured down from the head. Mickey was silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then, after a while, he spoke quietly. They say extremes meet.

“Looking at the reports Bran wrote during his FBI training, his aversion to crime seemed quite significant. It appeared that his childhood resentment towards his father manifested as a kind of moral puritanism.”

Having rinsed his hair, Isaiah picked up the bottles on the shelf one by one, looking for body wash. Outside the booth, Mickey continued his muttering, almost talking to himself.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but US crime statistics from the 2000s show that a significant number of violent criminals have parents with criminal records. And in most of these cases, they claim to have abhorred and hated crime during their childhood. Because they think their parents are the root of all their misfortune.”

And the resentment towards parents naturally extends to resentment towards the crimes that ruined them – drugs, theft, prostitution. Many children of criminals aspire to become police officers when they are young. They believe that if they lock up all the bad guys, if they create a world without crime, then no one will be unhappy anymore.

“But sadly, reality is often the opposite.”

Isaiah didn’t reply. He pretended to read the labels on the bottles, squinting. Fortunately or unfortunately, he quickly found the body wash. French lavender scent. He wished it had been rose.

Outside the booth, Mickey was still rambling on by himself.

“But it’s not a matter of genetics, it’s a matter of environment. The frequency of contact with crime differs depending on the environment. For children with criminal parents, the line between crime and daily life is blurred. Drugs, assault, theft, gambling… these are all too familiar to those kids.”

Isaiah also found a disposable shower sponge and tore open the packaging. He didn’t use sponges at home. He’d just rub soap roughly with his bare hands, lather up, apply it to his body, and rinse off. But today, for some reason, he wanted to use one. There was no particular reason, other than it would buy him a little more time. Rushing out would only subject him to Mickey’s lengthy speech.

He squeezed a generous amount of the thin gel onto the mesh sponge and rubbed it a few times. Rich foam quickly billowed up. Isaiah applied it to his body. His reflection shimmered vaguely in the steam-fogged mirror.

Inside the steamy booth, under the soft lighting, the stream of water scattered into rainbow colors. Seeing himself beyond it, completely covered in white foam, a certain scene suddenly came to mind.

“Bennett Wiseman was a member of the Kalisz organization until the moment he died. Not even his wife and son knew he was FBI. He must have acted thoroughly like a mafioso. Even at home. Young Bran was so clever that he managed not to lose himself even in that environment, but he couldn’t help becoming accustomed and desensitized to the normalized crime.”

Sunday High Mass. Even the magnificent stained glass densely covering the windows couldn’t completely block the morning sun. Beneath the rainbow-hued sunlight pouring down, Bran, dressed in a white surplice, followed the priest.

He had never seen such a holy sight in his life. Not before, not since. He clearly remembered the entrance hymn that day too. Take my life. During the years spent at that facility, he couldn’t even memorize a single prayer properly, but he could still sing that hymn exactly, even now. Lord, take my life, that it may be consecrated to Thee; Lord, take my moments, my days, let them live in endless praise; Lord, take my hands, my feet, that they may move for Your love; Lord, take my voice, my lips, that they may fill the whole world with Your word……, Lord, take my strength, that I may use it for Your work…… Lord, take me now, as I am, so that I may become, always, only, everything for You…….

“He even entered the world of the mafia after becoming an adult. Whether as part of an operation or not, he killed people with his own hands and sold drugs. He saw many people ruined by the drugs he sold.”

“……”

“Crime is routine for him, then and now. The only difference is that when he was young, it was things happening around his father, whereas now he is the perpetrator. The only time he lived a life completely unrelated to crime was those few years he stayed with you at the facility.”

He needed to rinse off the foam, but he couldn’t. This wasn’t a surplice or anything. It certainly wasn’t the pure white symbol of Bran’s integrity and nobility; it was just foam. Just a surfactant dissolving the sweat, secretions, and all the grime stuck to his skin throughout the day, yet he couldn’t bring himself to wash it away. It felt as if doing so would make everything get sucked down the drain.

“Bran Wiseman is no longer the model student from back then. Nor is he the altar boy who followed the priest. He’s a ruthless mafioso who can kill anyone, anytime he wants. Irrespective of any FBI operation.”

In fact, he’s already killed several people. Mickey, who had approached the booth at some point, said.

“Didn’t you know that already?”

Should he say he knew? He had sensed it vaguely. Perhaps when he realized Bran didn’t like talking about the Don Bosco days, that might have been the first time he glimpsed the abyss within him.

Of course, even without that, he had constantly found it surprising. He already knew everything, and Bran knew that he knew. Yet, Bran never once asserted his position as an FBI agent. He simply spoke and acted as a mafioso. Perhaps that was why he felt a sense of relief seeing him talk to Mickey today. Right, so he really was FBI.

Isaiah took another step under the pouring stream of water. The white foam covering his entire body began to wash away instantly. And soon, it disappeared without a trace. It dissolved in the water even before being sucked down the drain.

“By the way, is that a tattoo?”

Mickey suddenly asked.

“What?”

“On your back. No, is it henna…?”

Only then did Isaiah twist his body to see his back in the mirror. Faint letters were visible above his left shoulder blade. It was hard to see, perhaps because of the steam on the mirror.

“Is it a prayer?”

Mickey asked, sounding surprised.

“Probably.”

Isaiah wiped the mirror with his palm. It was still hard to see clearly. It wasn’t because of the mirror, but because the henna itself had faded considerably. It had already been ten days, so it was natural. Some letters were completely gone, invisible. But Isaiah knew what the words were. Even if entire words disappeared, he would likely have no trouble reading the sentence.

God, grant me
the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and wisdom to know the difference.

It was a prayer that appeared several times in . He still didn’t know why Bran liked that book. The book was too depressing and contemplative. He remembered that right below this pious prayer, there was probably a sentence like this:

In the story that had already ended, the protagonist could do nothing. Even traveling through time in an alien spaceship, he just went back and forth between the past, present, and future, struggling like an insect trapped in amber, unable to change anything. He couldn’t stop the war, and the bombing happened just the same. The protagonist even had to board the plane he knew would crash.

Because it was that kind of story. That kind of novel. The protagonist’s name was even Pilgrim. A pilgrim can do nothing but look back at the traces left behind.

But this life is not that kind of story. Everything is different from that novel. Starting with the name. His name is not Pilgrim. His name is Isaiah. The meaning of Isaiah is far more active than the meaning of Pilgrim. Yahweh is my salvation. Since Yahweh refers to existence itself, depending on the subject, it could be money, or a pig, or God.

His Yahweh had always been Bran. He had saved him. Changed his past. Thanks to him, the present had changed too. So, the future would probably change as well. It had to.

“Hey.”

Isaiah turned the shower lever in the opposite direction. The loud sound of water stopped abruptly.

“Yes?”

“You know your boss’s phone number, right?”

“Who? Jack? Edgar?”

“Doesn’t matter who.”

Call whichever one you have the number for, right now. Isaiah said as he opened the booth door and stepped out.

Yahweh is always salvation. And Yahweh can be money, or God.

His Yahweh had always been Bran.

Then, he could be Bran’s Yahweh too.