The Last Western (38 page)

“Guns,” said Joto. “Since Indochina war, gun sound cause him to weep.”

Willie took Truman’s huge hands in his own.

“Nothing harms those who love,” he said softly. Truman seemed to take little solace from these words.

Felder passed through the room again. Joto shook his head sadly.

“Doctor come earlier,” said Joto. “Say nothing to be done except stop drinking.”

Willie called to Felder but he did not hear. He paced the room like a man in a cell, blind and dumb. Neither Willie nor Joto could know that Felder was watching a movie about men being shot. They could not see the men falling in rows and they could not hear the bullets clipping through the leaves. The movie had started in the afternoon and Felder then had known it was a movie, but now he was not sure and it had come to him that he was watching the execution of his father. If he kept silent and did nothing to interfere, his father would give him the final, important message.

When Willie, Truman and Joto formed a little triangle and stood in long silence looking at the bare black cross that Truman carried with him, and prayed in the listening fashion, Felder paid no attention to them.

The focus of the prayer was the evening telecast, but the
dona
of Truman and Joto gave Willie little to go on.

All three
dona
were specific in imagery. The men exchanged them in sign tongue.

Truman:

Man—maybe Servant—standing in street in Paris saying, All commitments lies. God say, Beginning lesson—A plus.

Joto:

Horse in stable. Much straw. Horse have magical speech men do not understand. Horse say, It not better light one candle.

Willie:

Man or bird flying. Cannot come down. God reach out his finger and bird land. Bird land in small town in Midwest America.

Then the church leaders and the politicians were at the door. With them was a lean, olive-skinned man with black-olive eyes who had not been at the dinner earlier in the evening.

“Cardinal Profacci,” said Cardinal Torres, “the Vatican secretary of state. Just arrived.”

“His Holiness sends kind personal wishes,” said Cardinal Profacci. “I understand Monsignor Nervi has already conveyed to you the essence of what the Holy Father wishes to say on this occasion?”

“They merely chatted, Ernesto,” said Cardinal Torres. “Don’t be so solemn. Ah, Mr. Felder. I trust you enjoy the suite?”

Felder, passing through the room, gave the cardinal a baleful glance. General Sunglasses made an entry in his notebook.

“That man is surely Signor Felder, no?” said Cardinal Profacci.

“Yes,” said Willie. “He brought us here.”

Profacci pursed his lips. As he watched Felder pass into the next room, he appeared to suppress a comment.

“The entire nation will be watching,” said Governor Borges. “Your Excellency, you do understand that we expect you to convince the rebels to cease firing?”

Willie looked at the governor, then Cardinal Torres, then Cardinal Profacci. He said slowly, “I will do my best.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Cardinal Torres genially. “Perhaps, Ernesto, you would like a Strega?”

“Of course,” said Willie, “you too will be expected to cease firing.”

“Naturally,” said the governor. Then to Torres, “Eminence, we should really be going.”

General Sunglasses said to Willie, “We are willing to discuss peace at any time with these lice. The fact that they started the war—well, we shall try to be Christian about that.”

“One thing to keep in mind,” said Mr. Cooter, the CIA agent. “These revolutionaries are really just a lot of show. They haven’t got your morale and your purpose to stick it through. So it shouldn’t be hard to get them to see reason.”

The guns seemed to get closer.

“We have lived with that poor poetry so long, it no longer affects us,” said Cardinal Torres.

At that moment a shell hit the department store across the street from the hotel. The room shook, the hotel shook. Truman became more agitated. They all turned to look at him.

Cooter said, “Get hold of yourself, man. Aren’t you an American?”

Truman drew himself up to his full height of six feet, seven inches. With his thick beard and heavy brows he looked very fierce but he was weeping openly.

“Cowardice is something I just can’t bear to see in a man,” said Cooter.

“Who asked you to bear anything?” said Willie.

“I intended no disrespect, Your Excellency,” said Cooter.

“You disrespect my friend,” said Willie.

Joto placed a hand on Cooter’s shoulder. “Go find spy, why not?” he said softly. “Hate to forget way of Servant. Hate to break back four, maybe six time.”

“Is that a threat, you Orient—?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” interjected Cardinal Torres. “Please, let us remember we are all Christians.”

“Great inconvenience at times,” said Joto.

Truman was still crying, but without making any sound.

“It is truly time to leave,” said Governor Borges. “The nation waits.”

They went to the station through the dark streets, past many barricades guarded by soldiers, and Willie could see the faces of the soldiers sliding past the window. Felder sat beside him seeing other faces. On the other side of Felder sat Cardinal Profacci, remarking upon the bloodshed and the folly of war.

“One thing I do not understand about the situation,” said Willie.

The governor said from the front seat, “What is that, Excellency?”

“The argument that the young general made earlier was that the revolutionaries are from the outside, from China and Latin America.”

“This is true—foreign dogs all,” said the governor. “Begging Your Excellency’s pardon; it is an emotional matter.”

“But are you not outsiders also, all of you who are from Portugal?” said Willie.

The governor laughed. “His Excellency jests.”

“I know little about these matters,” said Willie. “There is; a simple answer?”

“Most simple, simple as one, two, three,” said the governor, holding up three fingers. “Portugal owns Angola. That is the simple truth.”

The car drove on another block. Willie said, “That is the question I guess I am asking then. How can one country own another?”

The governor drummed his fingers on the dashboard, then said something in French to Cardinal Profacci.

Cardinal Profacci said something in French to Willie.

“I did not hear what you said; I am sorry,” said Willie.

In his confident smooth baritone, Cardinal Profacci said, “Your Excellency asks a truly simple question, much like a child asking why the sky is blue—please do not take offense. Like the child’s simple question, however, it does require much explaining. It raises many questions of culture and history and political realities. Now, Excellency,” Profacci leaned forward, speaking across the immobile Felder, who was staring still at the execution movie, “now, consider cur role here. This role is not one of reviewing history or analyzing complex political relationships. Our role, your role tonight, is much different. This is to bring peace to the people, to stop the fighting and the killing. Is this comprehended?”

Willie gazed at a tenement or apartment building that had been shelled. He could see people standing about, turning to look at the official cars. How many were homeless here, how many needed warmth and food?

“Still,” he said hesitantly, “to stop the killing—does not this sometimes demand new political relationships? I mean, please forgive my slowness, one cannot have true peace without justice?”

Governor Borges, turning all the way around now, said, “Certainly His Excellency does not imply that Portugal has been unjust to Angola?”

“I only want to know,” said Willie, “if it’s possible for the people to be happy and to have peace when the country they are living in does not belong to them. I have wanted to know this for a long time. It was never explained to me in school.”

The governor and Cardinal Profacci spoke in French, the governor a little excitedly. From time to time Cardinal Profacci would pat the governor on the shoulder as if to say it would be ail right. Willie was thinking of something that had happened a long time ago in the Einstein seminary, only they had talked in English there.

Felder moved suddenly. “He isn’t one of them,” he whispered. “Some other execution entirely.”

Cardinal Profacci and the governor broke off.

“It’s all right, Brother Herman,” said Willie.

“What does he speak?” said the cardinal.

“He is not well, he is like a man dreaming,” said Willie.

The screen had gone black in Felder’s mind, the last man had been shot. He turned to Willie, showing the face of a very old man.

“We are in a car. We are in California. Maybella and Lawson Thebes are having us up for dinner and a movie. Those are true facts?”

“We are in a car,” said Willie. “We are in Angola. I am making a television speech soon. This is Cardinal Profacci from Rome.”

“It is—good—to see you again, Mr. Felder,” said Profacci. The cardinal sat very still, looking ahead.

Felder squinted at the rubble on the streets ahead of them.

“A war? A riot? What is going on?”

“You remember, Herman, we came here to speak to them about the trouble,” said Willie.

“Do you have a drink?”

“I’m afraid not, Brother Herman.”

Then Felder came to a little. “Willie,” he said “
Oh God, Willie
.” He rubbed his eyes. “Fact number one, I’m stoned. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn,” Felder began to moan, holding his head.

“He should have stayed at the hotel,” said the governor from the front seat.

“Where did you meet Mr. Felder?” said Profacci.

Before Willie could answer, Felder said, “Profacci—Rome—ten, eleven years ago.”

“I remember, Mr. Felder,” said Profacci.

“I need a drink,” Felder announced.

“Brother Herman, we—”

“Stop the car,” said Felder.

The driver actually braked the car, but the governor said, “Drive on.”

“We’ll get something for you at the station,” said Willie.

“I can’t wait,” said Felder. “Really.”

“Joto will be there.”

Felder quivered and lay back against the seat and closed his eyes. Willie took hold of his arm.

When they reached the station, Felder broke out of the car and began running. Joto, alighting from the car behind, stopped him. Willie started after them but Profacci held him back.

“There is not time, Bishop.”

Governor Borges said something in very rapid French to the cardinal.

Willie could see Joto leading Herman Felder into the side entrance of the studio. Truman was with them.

“It is twelve minutes, even less,” said General Sunglasses, coming up from the second car.

They all went into the studio.

Cardinal Profacci again spoke French to Governor Borges. General Sunglasses asked a question. He seemed angry. Profacci turned and signaled to Willie. Then he led Willie into a small office off the lobby of the studio.

“Signor Felder—you know very much about him?”

“He is my friend and brother.”

Profacci looked at him with grave eyes. “You know his background surely?”

“I do not care about anyone’s background,” said Willie.

Profacci hesitated. “We have only a few minutes. Perhaps later we can talk about Signor Felder. There are things—”

“I do not care to know them,” said Willie.

Profacci smiled, then frowned, then smiled again. His face was an instrument he had learned to control over long years of practice. Whatever was on it bore no relation to what he felt or thought but was designed by its possessor to communicate only the impression that one was dealing with an official, a spokesman, a representative.

“Governor Borges and the others are concerned about your speech,” said the voice, which was confident and official-sounding. “The Holy See, of course, must always be sensitive to the political structure.”

Overhead, there was a tiny circular speaker and through it suddenly came the voice of the old-time American singer, Frank Sinatra.

If you’re feeling sad and lonely,

There’s a service I can render.

Tell the one who loves you only.

I can he so warm and tender.

“Let me put the matter very simply, bishop,” said Cardinal Profacci, “the Holy See does not, indeed cannot, interfere with the political life of a country. The exact relationship of the church to the temporal order is one that—”

When it seems your friends desert you,

There’s somebody thinking of you.

I’m the one who’ll never hurt you.

Willie could hear the guns over the song and over the voice of the cardinal, and then he heard the voice of the old man in Baltimore asking of Rafferty.

“Who killed Father Rafferty?” he said.

“The affair of Father Rafferty must absolutely not be discussed.”

“He was killed by the present government?”

Profacci’s face remained calm. Only the hands, frozen, gave any evidence of tension.

“We have less than ten minutes,” he said. “It is a delicate situation with Rafferty. He was killed because he joined the revolutionists. That is all we know.”

Willie tried to think. Before Profacci could continue, he said, “Is this government treating the people right? Is it feeding them and helping them find good houses? Is it taking care of the health of the children? Or is it just being—powerful?”

“The temporal affairs of—”

“Please,” said Willie, “I have to have an answer to this question. Is it a just government or not?”

Profacci rubbed his eyes. Now he spoke as a professor from a lectern.

“The Holy See appointed you to your present post not to meddle in the internal political affairs of nations but to bring peace—peace to all these countries that have known nothing but war for so long.”

“But how can I, or anyone, bring peace without going into the internal affairs, or whatever you call them?”

“Ah,” said Profacci, holding up a finger. “Permit me to explain.” The cardinal leaned forward. He paused and pointed to the ceiling. “You make your appeal, Excellency, not to the temporalities, over which neither you nor I have any control in any event, but rather you make your appeal to the spiritualities. Politics and politicians come and go, but the spiritualities—they are changeless. That is what the church signifies for men—the spiritual principles which are the foundation of human salvation.” He spoke passionately, as if he had been preparing this quick speech all his life.