The  Pilot Carl was born and lived in cold, rainy Scandinavia. He was blond, blue-eyed, and tall with a trained athletic, muscular body. He was a pilot in international Scandinavian airline. He earned good money and loved his work. He travelled all around the Globe and visited almost every corner of our small, but comfortable for life, planet. He was part of the international brotherhood of pilots, who met each other in the bars of five-star hotels, where pilots stop at night, resting between their flights. In the bars they drank - beer, whiskey, soda and exchanged flight news. English was the language used to communicate in with a special pilot accent. Many pilots knew each other by face, some even by name, from years of stopping in the same hotels, where the windows were tightly shut and could not be opened - sealed like the windows in airplanes, locking out almost all the noise around the never sleeping airports. But pilots were accustomed to these strange, artificial conditions of life and felt great in these elite five-star night shelters offering first class breakfast. Carl was married and had three children - blond, blue-eyed Scandinavian pretty babies - nice and slender. His wife worked as a priest (or perhaps more correctly - priestess) in the Protestant Church after her theological education at the university and specialization as a Protestant priest. She read sermons on Sundays and holidays for parishioners who believed in the Protestant God. She dressed in a black long dress with a white starched collar that made her head, with her short slightly curly hair, look like a cauliflower on a plate. She handed out to the parishioners small, round, crispy wafers in their mouth as a sign of the renunciation of all the sins they accumulated over the week, or for a longer period, and gave them sweet port wine to drink in silver glasses, wishing that they forget their sinful deeds forever. But they came again and again, maybe because they forgot about their promises to God, or maybe because they liked port wine. They sang Protestant hymns together with great enthusiasm, calling to the Protestant God in their churches and hoping that he would like their songs. The church had a separate house where the family lived, the pilot along with his wife-priestess - for free, as a supplement to her professional activities.
Priest in Scandinavia receive a fixed salary, not from God or the parishioners who visited God's house very irregularly, but from the state, which through the tax system ensured the existence of a state religion with the church buildings, priests (both sexes) and their families, limited official support only by only one, Protestant God, as reflecting of the Scandinavian system of believes. Protestant churches - are simple, painted white with primitive altars without the magnificent gold ornaments and statues that are present in the Catholic or Orthodox churches - have been more affordable for the small Scandinavian country with socialist orientation and the most developed democracies of majorities. Priests annually have had a three-week vacation from God, which the pilot family spent in their cabin in the woods, not far from the sandy beach. The pilot ran in the mornings along the beach, preparing his lean body for new overloads during the flight, and his wife spent her days lying in the sun trying to forget about God and the parish. She devoted all of her free time to life in the woods, picking berries and cooking sweet jam from forest raspberries. They inherited the forest cabin from her father, also a priest, who had accumulated enough money in the service of the Protestant God to afford the small house in the woods, not far from the sandy beach. So they lived. The pilot flying around the globe, carrying passengers and their baggage, his wife served in the church, following the traditions of the reformer Martin Luther - who loved to drink beer and did not want to follow the Catholic celibacy. Their children were well brought up, polite, and attend a private school. Everything was fine, worked out in detail. And then one day.... Once Carl arrived in New York, staying as usual in a five-star hotel at JFK airport, which was paid for by his airline, and after a short rest and a refreshing shower, he went down to the hotel lobby bar, where there were pilots and flight attendants of other airlines. He ordered a Danish beer and sat down at the table where he saw his friend, a Russian pilot, Alex. After the collapse of Soviet Russia everything that could be privatized was, including the state owned Soviet airline, where Alex worked. Now he was bringing Russian and non-Russian passengers on behalf of a private Russian airline company that inherited the planes, pilots and
mechanics from the old state system. The only change was the hiring of new flight attendants and several long-legged young stewardesses. Alex was a pilot with years of experience, who loved whiskey, had a wife and two children, and dreamed of buying a cottage in the woods. His salary was much lower than that of Carl, but the risk of flying old planes, even ones made under the Soviet system, was much higher than that of his Scandinavian friend, flying in the rather new American Boeing. In recent years accidents of aircraft in Russia happened more frequently than in other countries, but Alex believed in a strict Russian God and St. Nicholas, who guarded all Orthodox’ travelers and travelling vehicles. That and his Russian, with nothing comparable, pilot experience he felt he was able to wiggle out of any situation in both the air and on land. Although they were the same age, Alex looking much older than his Scandinavian pilot friend, was a living reflection of the turbulent history of Russia over the past twenty years, with his premature gray hairs at the temples, round buddy, where fat is delayed "for a rainy day", wrinkled and puffy little early wrinkles on his round tired face. Alex bravely lived a day-by-day life, taking as a part of sport the real increase in prices for everything in his home country, with the daily increasing pressure from his wife and two children along with the demanding European standards from Russia’s fragile, but very lively and unpredictable lifestyle. The pilots sipped from their cups: Carl - native, Scandinavian, slightly bitter beer, Alex - Scottish whiskey - and exchanged insignificant phrases, trying to stick to purely professional subjects, mostly of the flights. Imperceptibly to them at the table sat an intruder. Carl had seen the man at the bar several times, but never talked to him. He had an ordinary American appearance and it was clear that he was not a part of the pilot club, but something told Carl that the American, although he was not a pilot, knew their business well enough. The American sat at their table and ordered American whiskey. The waitress brought the Whiskey-on-the-Rocks and a plate of pickled olives, nodding to the American as a friend. He slowly began to sip his drink. The American introduced himself as John and that he was a special representative of an airline that flew special, short-term assignments. Carl was not going to change his job, but he was always curious to find out about other companies and working conditions for pilots. Who knows: maybe
one day he will also look for a new job - contacts could be handy. And Alex was always glad for new adventures that promised easy money, the possibility of getting rich, having escaped from the clutches of Russia's instability and inflation. They perked up their ears and started listening to John, who spoke about the difficult but realizable flight to central Africa with a special cargo. Compensation for the delivery of the cargo would be 1,000,000 dollars. - What cargo is taken……… Weapons? - Asked the all knowing and quickly orients Alex. - Yes, weapons - confirmed John. - The U.S.? - Asked Alex. Carl listened and said nothing. Yes, the U.S., but without labels. Only one flight is required, but with two landings, John continued. - Yeah, selling to both sides? - Asked, or rather guessed Alex. He then added: - Who is the second co-pilot? John hesitated. He would not discuss details in the presence of the silent Scandinavian guy. Carl understood without words, that his presence was not welcome, and took his leave, since he was catching the early flight the next day. Alex stayed with John alone. Carl returned to his room and ordered food by phone and decided to go to bed early. His flight was early the next morning, he had taken a bath, was laying in a bed, of clean, crispy sheets watching American news, rarely a mention the Scandinavian countries, as something quite insignificant in the lives of Americans. He returned home glad to see his wife and children, his familiar church which in Scandinavia was called "ship of God," and his small, well-organized country with the world's highest taxes and lowest criminal rate. He had forgotten about Alex, John, weapons, war, Africa and plunged into the small problems of his country and family. Carl returned to New York again in two weeks, and was registered in the same hotel, which became commonplace for him, and
after a short rest went down to the same lobby bar. There were several pilots, unknown to him, drinking at tables and sitting at the bar. He did not find any familiar faces, and finally sat on a high stool at the bar. Carl ordered, as always, Carlsberg - Scandinavian beer, and began to slowly absorb the familiar childhood drink. The bartender was standing beside him, wiping glasses. - Have you seen Alex, the Russian pilot, here, - Carl asked the bartender. - Russian? No, but a rumor circulates, that there was some accident, replied the bartender with a fidgety obliging smile. - You do not know what to believe - he added, but Carl did not ask for more. He knew that such weapons adventures often result in human tragedy. The pilots told each other stories about these illegal, non-register fly operations, as a courier of arms to African countries in war. They were the full-range adventures of James Bond type, but often without the "Happy End." He did not know the exact details of the death of Alex, but imagined well, how could this happen. The American arms industry led a billion-dollar business spreading, by all means available, modern destruction weapons around the globe. Business was good and brought the American economy fabulous income, based on the exploration of the aggressive nature of human beings, mostly male, trying to prove to each other by force of arms - who is the head on the ground. Africa was a good buyer of American weapons, which needed an outlet for outgoing production. The U.S. Army bought new, more sophisticated weapons, and the old fashion ammunition went on sale in other, less developed and less civilized countries. Earlier African tribes conducted wars for territory and herds of cows, using spears, arrows tipped with poison, and cunning. The U.S. weapons made their task much easier, they killed each other using American and Russian guns, finding in the battle the joy and spice of life. Production of children still overtook the extinction curve in Africa’s continent thanks to religion, prohibiting birth control for women and often recognized polygamy.
Africa was very rich in various minerals, and the Africans were paying for the weapons using small, bright, yellowish stones of which there were many more. They were called in Africa the "bloody diamonds". The stones exchanged for the weapons went to Europe. They were cut in Antwerp, the world's largest diamond exchange, where long-nosed Jewish masters gave the crystals form and brilliance, then releasing them to the global stock market for resale. They knew for centuries the secret knowledge of diamonds, the strongest in the world of crystals, adorning the fingers and necks of young and old respectable members of societies around the world as a sign of belonging to wealth. Alex, surely, had signed a contract for the delivery of American weapons without labels, where ten per cent was paid in cash before the flight, and the rest - in the bloody, raw, rough diamonds after the delivery of arms to the war hungry Africans. Probably, his plane was shot down by Africans themselves - that happened too often, and in reports of incidents of nonregistered flights, the aircraft and the pilot appeared as non-existent. Carl went to his room and dialed the phone number of his wife. A familiar voice answered, and he felt relived. His wife was at their cabin in the woods with the children and they walked in the rain. Carl told her that he would go to the country, without going home, immediately after his arrival, he then went to bed. That night he dreamed that he was Alex, a Russian pilot, with an unemployed wife and three young children. In the dream he experienced another meeting with John, he dreamed of a military American plane full of weapons, which he should deliver to his native Scandinavia, where there was a war between the islands. He awoke in a cold sweat and began to get ready for the flight. After finishing an eight-hour flight to his Scandinavia, Carl left the plane, found his car at the airport, which waited for him in a special parking lot and drove straight to the country. It was early morning, the rain stopped and the sun came out. Half an hour later the car drove into the garage, he got out and filled his lungs with the smells. It smelled of wet forest, trees and fresh coffee. His wife was sitting on the terrace drinking black coffee with roasted, warm toast. The children were still asleep. Without a word he embraced his wife and sat at the table. She smiled and poured him a cup of fresh coffee. The cup was on the table and waited for him. Carl’s heart warmed up. He felt love for his wife, coffee, forest, sky, and the dog curled at his feet: for the
first time in his life he felt this overpowering love for all living things so strongly. Now he understood the words of the Bible that his wife often read during sermons in church: "Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself." He loved his wife, the forest, his children, his dog and Scandinavia as himself. They were his neighbors. And suddenly in his soul, somewhere in his chest near his heart, jumped something else, unknown, new. " What about the others, far away? Who will love them? Alex, who was killed in Africa, his wife and his two children, these poor fighting Africans, Americans working in military ammunitions factories, which produced weapons of death, but who also have wives and children? Who will love them? " Carl realized for the first time that he relates to everyone and everything on earth - with Alex, and his Russian family, unknown to him, and the American John, and those who bring and sell weapons produced by Americans, and with the cutters of the bloody diamonds in Antwerp, Belgium, and the Africans with their eyes red from lack of sleep, and with all women, who wear such stones on their fingers. His eyes filled suddenly with tears. His wife looked at him anxiously. -Coffee is too hot, - said Carl. The dog barked and wagged her tail. The door suddenly was opened and standing there was his younger daughter in a long nightgown with a teddy bear in her tiny hands- stretching her whole body with a big innocent smile at her happy face. - Pappy has arrived! - She placed her small, yet child-like plumy little hands around Carl’s neck and hung on her adorable pappy. He gently kissed her blue eyes, and put her on his knees. Pictures of an unjust world with its weapons, murders, misery began to fade under the pressure of the smile of this young creature, knowing only the forest, beach, sea, father, mother, brothers, funny brown dog, and love. Carl wanted to believe in the cheerful, comfortable world of a little girl, his daughter.
Suddenly a ray of sunlight reflected off of something, broke into a thousand rainbow colors and played at the face of this little creature. Carl turned his eyes, searching the mysterious shiny object and saw that it was a diamond, glittering on the finger of his wife. He averted his eyes and with the smile, he said friendly: - Who will run with me on the beach? Irina Bjørnø, 08/06/2011 12.29