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Marko Fushier walked down the colonnade between Harvard’s historic ivy covered buildings. He was scheduled to teach an economics class at 9:30, but this tall slender, curly haired professor was not hurried. He wore tight blue jeans, a white shirt with a blue sport coat and strolled along enjoying the spring sunshine while thinking of his life. He had accomplished his dream of a Doctorate in Economics, specifically Input/Output theory. He had recently received tenure. As a permanent Harvard Economics professor, he was very pleased and proud. He knew his parents would want to know right away.
Today he was enjoying the new leaves on the old elm trees and the birds out there singing to each other. He said to himself, “This will be a spectacular year.”
As he approached the Student Union Newsstand his eyes suddenly riveted to the headlines “TERRORISTS KIDNAP U.S. AMBASSADOR AND OTHERS.” He thought his heart would stop.
As he stood riveted to the spot Marko grabbed the paper, threw down money on the counter and started reading the article while he walked:
During a reception in Argentina, Supremenistas stormed into the American Embassy. The U.S. Ambassador, the German Ambassador and the Secretariat de Estada De Paraguay were forced to leave with ten armed men and additional guards at the doors. The U.S. Ambassador's wife ran through the terrorists to her husband’s side, demanding they allow her to go instead, she said, “My husband is ill. He will not live through the night without his medicine. Please, I will go.”
With tears running down his cheeks, Marko read to the end of the article skimming over reactions from German and Paraguayan Embassies and the impact these terrorists’ acts made on the world at large.
The people these newspapers talked about so carelessly were his mother and father. His beautiful mother who was so calm and understanding, so devoted to his dynamic father, who’s high blood pressure kept him from doing many activities.
The guerrillas had escorted her upstairs. While she collected her husband’s medicine she snatched up some clothes jamming everything into a gym bag. When they came back to the main ballroom, she grabbed her husband’s arm and wouldn’t let go. The Supremenistas didn’t have time to argue and took her with the Ambassador. Marko shook his head and thought, “That’s just like her.”
She loved her tall, handsome Frenchman with all her heart. He was so attentive and ultra-romantic, always telling her how beautiful she looked even though they were in their nineties now. His mother and father had been in their late forties when Marko was born. He thought all parents were gray haired, not that his mother ever had gray hair. Her hair was bright red always. She said, “That’s the color I was born with and that’s the color I will die with, Irish red.”
His father would hug her and laugh when she said that. Marko still didn’t know why they thought it was funny. He assumed it was one of those lover expectations fulfilled. They always told him, “We’ve had a good life. We’ve been blessed with a son we never thought would happen and a life of living all over the world. We’ve experienced ten different nations working as ambassador.”
Marko was raised as an ‘embassy brat.’ He went to elementary school in France, and Japan. Later he schooled in Turkey, Spain and Italy. When it came time for college he wanted to attend one school the whole time without moving and always being known as the new kid. His grandmother, Maggie Scot, lived in San Francisco so he went to Berkeley to be near her. She was going on one-hundred at that time, spoke with an Irish brogue, said funny Irish things Marko’s understanding not grasping the full meaning. She never told him exactly how old she was. He was always glad he had time with her before she passed away. After he graduated Berkeley, he enrolled at UCLA and still went up to visit her on weekends, but she told him one day, “I won’t be here much longer. You are well on your way now, Sonny. I have other things to do so don’t grieve for me when I’m gone. I want a big Irish wake, a celebration.”
Within two weeks she passed away. She always called him ‘Sonny’ and loved him more than he could ever return. He never understood the strange look she gave him when they met after some time had passed. He thought all grandmothers did that. She left him saddened by his loss. Now he was losing his mother and father also. He wouldn’t let that happen without a fight.
He started walking. In a daze, he deliberated the possibilities, thinking, “What can I do?”