Page 106 of Theo of Golden

Lamisha, the youngest member of the congregation and weepy with feelings too complex for her vocabulary, was aware enough of her surroundings to notice the swaths of color as they crept subtly across the sanctuary.

She wondered if the colors from the windows, set free like the notes of music from Simone’s cello, would hide in the chandeliers and curtains and rafters until late at night when the room was dark and silent. Did they, too, like those quarter and eighth and sixteenth notes at the Bet, reappear for festivities after midnight? Is that what the preacher meant when he spoke of resurrection?

If Theo were there, he would have been able to tell her.

A large bouquet of hydrangeas and roses had been placed in front of the pulpit where a casket might ordinarily have been situated. Next to the flowers, a portrait of Theo, drawn by Asher and placed on a paint-stained easel, fixed its gaze on the congregation. In it, Theo’s closed mouth smiled broadly, and his eyes glistened. To those in the front rows, Asher’s mastery as an artist and Theo’s mastery as a man fully-alive were movingly apparent.

At precisely seven o’clock, the last notes of the organ receded into silence, and Father Lundy walked to the pulpit. He paused, studied the assembled mourners, and finally settled his eyes on those nearest him. In a tone almost conversational — strong and precise and warm — he spoke.

“To everyone else, he was Zila the famous. To us, he was Theo the familiar.

“To everyone else, he was Zila the wealthy. To us, he was Theo the generous.

“To some, he is Zila the headline. To us, he is Theo the friend.

“To some, he is Zila the preyed upon. To us, he is Theo the prayed for.

“To some, he was Zila the mysterious recluse. To us,” Father Lundy looked at the first rows, at Ellen, Kendrick, and at Tony’s tear-filled eyes, “to us, he will always be the face of heaven.

“We honor him today. And we grieve, but not — to quote the Apostle Paul — as those who have no hope. Didn’t Theo speak often of heaven, with an unmistakable longing in his voice and with a clear conviction of its reality and beauty?”

Heads nodded.

“In Theo’s honor, and in keeping with the hope that expressed itself so radiantly in his life, I read these words of promise from Another, a far greater One who lived obscurely among His neighbors long ago, an Artist Himself, the One who, for Theo, defined life and love and goodness. The One who alone makes us good and wise and happy.”

Father Lundy read from the gospels of Matthew and John and then, in recognition of Theo’s love for water, both moving and still, the twenty-third Psalm.

Father Lundy let the words hang over the room before offering an extemporaneous prayer: thankful, thoughtful, honest, and eloquent.

“… And if it is true that ‘begging is our only wisdom,’ then we beg, dear Lord, that this man’s presence in our lives will not have been in vain but instead that we will perpetuate the obedient faith, the cheerful hope, and the generous love that he made so beautifully visible while he was here among us. Might the light of his countenance, how he loved, and who he loved, inspire us to follow him, even as he followed the Christ, in whose name we pray. Amen.”

When those in the congregation opened their eyes and raised their heads, Professor Gobelli was sitting before them, to the right of the pulpit.

With graceful and balletic precision of movement, he raised his left hand to the neck of the cello, positioned the bow over the strings with his right, took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, tilted his head slightly, and began to play a mournful rendition of “Fado for Theo.”

Simone, face still bruised and hand still bandaged, listened intently to the tribute he had written for his erstwhile benefactor. He could never have imagined, when he wrote the piece, that it would become a requiem. If he had been able to play the piece himself — would that day ever come? — he would have done so. For now, the strange providence of his injury allowed him, instead, to weep at the beauty of what he had written and to hear his mentor bring the notes to life.

Professor Gobelli played the piece slowly, with a pathos that only a master could coax from wood and strings. The cello groaned, sighed, sobbed, prayed, pleaded, and finally rested.

Theo would have been pleased.

When the last note of the fado faded into silence, Professor Gobelli lifted the bow from the strings, laid his head on the cello’s neck, and sat motionless for a spell of seconds, as if paralyzed by the power of the moment. He wiped his eyes, stood, and left the platform as Father Lundy returned to the pulpit.

“Some of you,” Father Lundy nodded to the front rows, “are much more qualified than I to offer a eulogy for Theo. At your request, I am honored to speak on your behalf and to share some thoughts on the life we celebrate here this evening. I do hope, in days to come, in whatever time and way seem appropriate to you, you will share your own stories about this wonderful man, this mysterious stranger who so quickly and deeply won our hearts.

“We have just recently passed through the Easter season in which themes of darkness and light, death and resurrection, despair and hope, fear and faith, and grief and joy have all been set before us.

“As I have reflected on Theo’s life these past few days, one scene from the record of Christ’s life has come to my mind over and over.

“You probably recall the scene. It occurs on a path called the Road to Emmaus. Jesus had been executed and news of His death had been widely circulated. It is a story of great religious significance in a city of great religious importance. And all the people seemed to have been talking about it.

“Two people were walking the Road to Emmaus together. We are given few details about them in the text, but one can imagine them robed and sandaled, leaning forward with their hands clasped behind their backs, faces furrowed with concern and questions, the sorts of concerns and questions that we have whenever death comes our way, the sorts of questions we have today, this very hour, two thousand years later.

“Those two — one was a man named Cleopas — were soon joined by a third.

“ ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked.

“We don’t know if He was welcome. Maybe the couple would rather have been left to themselves, to untie the Gordian knot of the crucifixion without the distraction of a stranger. But they tolerated Him even if they didn’t actually welcome Him.