The 5 am club

Michelangelo
Fiorentino et Rafael da Urbino: Masters of Art in the Vatican.
He read it for
hours. You can just imagine how happy he felt.
The jet made its trajectory over a number of vast continents and above
varied terrain. The flight was meticulously conducted, and the landing was as
fluid as the overall experience was fine.
“Bienvenue au Île Maurice,” announced the captain over the public
address system as the aircraft taxied along the freshly paved runway. “Merci
beaucoup. Welcome to Mauritius and Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam
International Airport,” he continued, speaking his words with the well-earned
confidence of someone who had spent most of his life in the sky. “It’s been a
privilege having you two VIPs with us. We’ll see you again in several days,
from what Mr. Riley’s personal assistant has informed us of your itinerary.
Thank you once again for flying with us, and we trust that the journey was
elegant, excellent and above all else, safe.”
A polished black SUV glittered on the tarmac as the flight attendant
escorted her special passengers off the plane and into the humming vehicle.
“Your luggage will follow shortly. Not to worry—it shall be delivered to
your guest rooms at Mr. Riley’s seaside estate. Spasiba,” she added in a
graceful tone and with an earnest wave.
“This is so A-list,” observed the entrepreneur as she happily snapped
some selfies, uncharacteristically pouting like a fashionista.
“Def,” replied the artist, as he photobombed her, sticking out his tongue
like Albert Einstein did in that famous photo that betrayed his seriousness as a

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scientist and revealed his undiminished childlike sense of wonder.
As the Range Rover rolled along the highway, tall stalks of sugar cane
swayed in the fragrant breezes blown by the Indian Ocean. The quiet
chauffeur wore a white cap, the kind you see bellmen at five-star hotels
wearing, and a well-pressed dark gray uniform that hinted at an understated
yet refined professionalism. He never missed slowing down when the speed
limit descended and ensuring his signal light was on whenever a turn was to
be made. Though it was evident that the man was older, he moved the vehicle
along the roadway with the precision of a young apprentice dedicated to
becoming the absolute best. Through the drive, his focus remained transfixed
on the pavement ahead, in a sort of trance designed to keep his passengers
secure yet deliver them to their destination with a smooth efficiency.
They passed through some tiny villages that had a timeless feel.
Bougainvillea lined the streets, wild dogs with king-of-the-road demeanors
stood at the meridian line, confronting the SUV in a deadly game of chicken,
and children played on small grassy lawns with thoughtless abandon.
Roosters could be heard shrieking from time to time, and old men in basic
woolen hats with tooth-missing mouths and chestnut-colored skin sat on
weather-beaten wooden chairs. They looked like they had too many hours to
pass in the day, at once tired from life’s hardships and yet wise from days
fully lived. Choirs of upbeat birds sang melodically while colorful butterflies
seemed to be fluttering everywhere.
In one tiny community the SUV snaked through, a skinny boy with legs
that appeared too long for his body pedaled a banana bike with a seat that was
set too high on its creaky metal frame. In another, a group of teenaged girls in
tank tops, surf shorts and flip-flops shuffled along the narrow but attentively
maintained road, following a man in army green cargo shorts wearing a t-shirt
that had “The No.1 Flame-Grilled Chicken” printed on the back of it.
Everything seemed to move on island time. People looked cheerful. They
beamed with a radiant vitality not so commonly seen in the overscheduled,
machine-dominated and sometimes soulless lives so many among us are
experiencing. The beaches were unspeakably beautiful. The gardens were
entirely glorious. And the entire Gauguin-looking scene was draped by a
series of mountains that looked like they’d been carved by a sixteenth-century
Florentine sculptor.
“See that structure up there?” the driver said, breaking his self-imposed
silence and pointing to a rock formation at the top of one of the peaks that
resembled a human figure. “That’s called Pieter Both. It’s the second-highest
mountain in Mauritius. See the summit up there? It resembles a human head,
right?” he noted with a finger pointed upward at the structure.

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“It definitely does,” responded the artist.
“When we were in elementary school,” the chauffeur continued, “we were
told the story of a man who fell asleep at the foot of the mountain. Hearing
strange sounds, he woke up to see fairies and angels dancing all about him.
These creatures instructed the man never to tell anyone what he had just seen
or he would be turned to stone. He agreed but then, given his excitement over
the mystical experience he’d witnessed, broke his commitment and told many
of his good fortune. Upset, the fairies and angels turned him to rock. And his
head swelled to such a degree it rose to sit at the peak of the majestic
mountain you both are looking at now, reminding everyone who sees it to
keep their promises. And honor their word.”
The SUV meandered past another community. Music played from a small
loudspeaker on a front porch as two teenaged boys and three teenaged girls
with white and pink flowers in their hair danced gleefully. Another dog
barked modestly in the background.
“Great story,” noted the entrepreneur. Her window was open, and her
wavy brown hair flitted in the wind. Her usually lined face now appeared
completely smooth. She enunciated her words more slowly now. An
unprecedented peacefulness emerged from her voice. One of her hands rested
on the seat—not so far from where a hand of the artist, which bore finely
etched tattoos on its middle and index fingers, lay.
“Mark Twain wrote, ‘Mauritius was made first, and then heaven; and
heaven copied Mauritius,’” the driver shared, now warming up after being
somewhat steely. He beamed as proudly as a president on Inauguration Day
after saying what he’d just said.
“Never seen anything like this,” the artist said, his goth-meets-angry-man
hostility now replaced with a more untroubled, carefree and relaxed
demeanor. “And the vibe I feel here is stirring something deeply creative
inside of me.”
The entrepreneur glanced at the artist for a little longer than was politely
acceptable. Then she looked away, out at the sea. Though reluctant, she
couldn’t help but smile gently.
The driver could be heard whispering into the SUV’s speakerphone, “Five
minutes away.” Then he handed each of his passengers a handcrafted tablet
that seemed made of gold. “Please study these,” he told them.
Engraved, finely, in the apparently precious metal were five statements.
Here’s what the tablets looked like:

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